Answer

He could no longer bear
The aggression of sparrows,
The din of crows in the trees;

And no pity remained in his heart
For the starlings tcheering on the lawn,
Unkempt and hungry after their journey.

He began to berate the God of Birds
Until walking by the sea at Kilcoole,
Two swans came towards him,

White and suddenly on the water.

-Pádraig J. Daly

What a beautiful poem about God's mercy and forgiveness. I need to take a walk beside the sea at Kilcoole.

God's Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil:
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs-
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Gerald Manly Hopkins

Stars and Dots

I have been trying to read to the girls in the evenings. Thursday night they chose all the stories they liked when they were “little.” One book, You Are Special, written by Max Lucado, which wasn't one of their favorites, made its way in the stack. It really got my attention as I read it.

This is an excerpt from the beginning of the story:

The Wemmicks were small wooden people carved by a woodworker named Eli.
Each Wemmick was different. Some had big noses, others had large eyes. Some were tall and others were short.

Each Wemmick had a box of golden star stickers and gray dot stickers. The wooden people went around the village sticking stars or dots on one another.

The pretty ones got stars. Wemmicks with rough wood or chipped paint got dots.
The talented ones got stars too. Some could jump over tall boxes or sing pretty songs. Others, though could do little. They got dots.

Punchinello was one of these. He tried to jump high like others, but he always fell. So the Wemmicks would give him dots. When he tried to explain why he fell, he would say something silly, so the Wemmicks would give him more dots.

“He deserves lots of dots,” the wooden people would say. After a while Punchinello believed them. “I guess I’m not a good Wemmick,” he decided. So he stayed inside most of the time.
When he did go outside, he hung around other Wemmicks who had lots of dots. He felt better around them.

The story goes on to tell that one day Punchinello meets Lucia who has neither stars nor dots. Punchinello asks why and she tells him to see the maker and find out.

This story touched me because on Wednesday night I spent an evening with people who according to Lucado’s story, would be covered in dots. It made me understand better why Punchinello felt more comfortable to be with people like himself than to be around the people who had assigned him his dots. I also thought about how hard it would be when you are so covered in dots to even be able to see a maker.

If you were a Wemmick, would you be covered with stars, dots, both, or completely starless and dotless?

God of Wonders

Caitlin is studying Apologetics. Today we began a chapter which discussed the Teleological Argument. In trying to prove that nature does exhibit design, some facts were brought out about the Universe that made me marvel and want to fall on my face.

The Universe (and this does not even include its outer limits which have not been measured yet) is estimated to be 20 billion light-years in diameter ( a light year is the distance light travels in one year, moving at a speed of more than 186,000 miles per second; a light year is approx. 5,880,000,000,000 miles). There are a billion galaxies in the Universe. We live in the Milky Way galaxy as you already know. If you got in a space ship and could travel to the end of our galaxy, it would take you 100,000 years traveling at the speed of light.
As Bronwyn always says, and I believe the Holy Spirit has revealed it to her, "Mom....God is really really big."

Now, in my heart, I know it is not arguments, factual and rational as they might be, but the Holy Spirit that convinces of a Creator and need of a Savior. One does not need to know these scientific data to repent and follow Him. But, there is something about the witness of his Creation which, as in Ps 29:11, causes all in his temple ( especially this miserable sinner) to cry, "Glory." I often think, though it may be heresy, that Creation should have been canonized in one of those councils of the early church. Even Paul said there was no excuse for unbelief in lieu of Creation's testimony.

The vastness of this material Universe boggles my mind and is beyond my comprehension. I can't look at a spider in its web and not be forced to behold the wildness of God. The most advanced aircraft man can make is put to shame by the beauty and ingenuity of the humble doves that visit my backyard. Yet, he is mindful and tender toward it all! Therefore, what shall I say then of the MIND that created it all; the Mind who chose to pitch a tent among the ones He irrationally loves. What can a creature made from dirt say to the very One who thought of a light year or galaxy...... Have mercy on me.....Hold on to me.

This chorus kept running through my mind as Caitlin and I discussed the immensity of the Universe.

God of wonders beyond our galaxy, you are Holy, Holy

The Universe declares your majesty, you are Holy, Holy.

Oh God of wonders have mercy on us......don't forget us, keep holding on to us.....You are Holy.

Pelican Facts

This afternoon, our science study was about winter birds. Bronwyn liked the topic so much she asked if we could learn more about birds. I happened to have some lovely large picture cards of birds from the United States and we looked at them enjoying all their different attributes. I left her at the table to browse them on her own. As I surfed the internet, I could hear her reading facts about the various species in the background. With one ear on her and one eye on the headlines, I heard, " The brown pelican is the state bird of Louisiana.......strong swimmer......and expert diver.....can plunge from a height of......eats fish.......ha-bi-tat........ " After what seemed a long pause, Bronwyn, irritated with the incompleteness of the facts, added, " Hey, pelicans also help deliver babies too!"

If It's not Santa, It's Peter Pan

Bronwyn has been reading a chapter from an abridged version of Peter Pan to me every night before bedtime. She has watched every movie about Peter and wanted to read the adventures. The other night she asked me if we could leave the window open for him before we went to sleep.


.........I said okay but only after she has fallen asleep.

Mid-life and Santa Suits

I have been made aware of advertisements at the top of my blog. I just clicked on it and presently it advertises, "Mid-life assitance" and "Santa Suits". Well, I must say, these titles do describe a bit of life I'm presently experiencing.

This morning I went to the gym and did my weight class (the one that keeps my hormones and mid-section in line), had an in-depth conversation with a friend after class, got home and Bronwyn informed me that my shirt was inside out. In my twenties or thirties I would have cared about my shirt, now I just think," Hey, at least I got out of bed today." That's the mid-life assistance part. The Santa suit part, though funny, makes me a little sad. I found some of Bronwyn's old letters to Santa last night with little pictures she had drawn for him---so sweet and precious.

On a happy note, Caitlin and I were invited to a tea party in Bronwyn's room today. We both received written invitations and directions. She had a baby shower for her stuffed animal dog who was about to deliver her puppies at any minute. We had some pretend conversation. I asked Bronwyn if she had a job and she said that she worked at Starbucks with her friends, Serenity and Emma and they also shared an apartment. Serenity and Emma couldn't get off work today to come to the shower. I asked Caitlin if she was married. She became very shy and Bronwyn, always the good hostess, blurted out, "Yea, she's married to the the guy whose name is written on the bottom of her foot with the henna Jessie gave her........Orlando Bloom." The party went a bit down hill after that....but the dog had her puppies and it got a little better.

Now it is time to take my mid-life nap.

A Day


9-2:30 The girls wake up, have some morning time and begin their lessons. Bronwyn has a final spelling test which she aces (as usual). She then reads about ostriches, beavers, squirrels, and the platypus. She is fascinated by the pictures and because it lays eggs, is not sure why a platypus is a mammal. “It provides milk for its young,” I say, and show her a picture of two red furless platy babies suckling as they are suspended from their mother’s nipple. Bronwyn lets out a big,” EWWWWW,” and I ask,” What’s the problem with that?” Caitlin giggles in the corner as she writes her history paper on the ancient Hebrews. Gregg is painting some closet doors and will go out to do some yard work soon. Bronwyn completes a narration and illustration on her reading and moves on to history and geography. She is ecstatic to learn that during the New Kingdom of Egyptian history the first female Pharaoh, Hatshepsut, took the throne. But she is a little less enamored that Hatshepsut had to don male clothing and a beard to do it. Caitlin voices her anger about the hoops an ancient female Pharaoh went through just to sit on a throne, but I tell her to get back to her biography on Einstein and then write a summary of the chapter naming three things she found interesting or important. I edit Caitlin’s papers and help Bronwyn finish her narration on History. School ends and I consume a lot of soy cheese and rice crackers. I would rather down a loaf of bread.

2:30-3:00 Caitlin hangs with Daddy outside and Bronwyn plays Happy Birthday on the piano. She decides that she is going to pretend she is playing at some bar and asks, “Does anyone out there have a Birthday today?” She makes me yell pretend names and she sings Happy Birthday to every person in the room! I feel like I am losing touch with reality after the 5th person gets sung to.

3:00-4:00 I cut up some cantaloupe and share. I go to the bathroom and wonder if I should change out of my pajamas. I also wonder why my eyebrows are lighter than my hair. Then I wonder if I should get a thyroid test because I am so tired all the time. Then I think,” No, you just have some incurable form of cancer.” Caitlin comes in and asks if she can call Jessie. Bronwyn bursts in, grabs me around the waist and begs, “Play with me.” I protest a little but tell her to go set up her room. “We will play Veterinarian office,” she decides. I tell Caitlin to go in her room to practice violin before she goes to Jessie’s equestrian event tonight. While Bronwyn sets up her room, I talk to Gregg outside laying bricks. We talk about whether we should stay in Vegas or try something new. We hear Heart and Soul and Happy Birthday on the piano. “I am ready,” Bronwyn yells. Caitlin begins scales on her violin.
As Bach’s Double Concerto comes through the bedroom wall, Bronwyn and I transition into our play roles. We play only three things when I am invited into her room: babies, store or veterinarian office. Her play name is always Libby. I on the other hand, have to be different characters that come into her office or store to keep the thing going. Vet's office is played with old medical instruments from my short lived nursing career, a red toy cash register, monopoly money, an old credit card, information forms found in Daddy’s garbage can and every stuffed animal that would possibly come into a vet's office. I come in as my first character, Jane Umbridge. My cat was in for surgery. She has me fill out some forms and pay. ”Are you the Doctor or the office assistant?” I ask. “I’m both,” she says. Her morning robe is her doctor’s coat, hadn’t I noticed??? We go through several other customer scenes and I ask if I can make a cup of peppermint tea. She acquiesces to my request. I return and sit on the bed with my tea ready for the next scene. Bronwyn decides to break character,” Mmmmmm that smells good,” and she pulls my cup to her lips. We continue on with the next poor animal victim, a homeless abandoned puppy with a bruised arm, but Bronwyn keeps breaking character taking sips of tea. Suddenly she says, “I feel like an ice cream bar.” We decide an ice cream break is o.k. at a Vet's office. She eats messily and we return to our play but she now has a thick chocolate outline left on her lips which I decide will give her character some vulnerability. As we discuss a Golden Retriever's heart problems, I hear that Caitlin has abandoned Bach for a little aside to the theme from the Lord of the Rings. I break character, “CAILTIN!” She responds to my prompt with a violin giggle and returns to the Bach double. Back at the vet's office, Vet Libby informs me that my dog needs surgery STAT!!! About one minute later, she reappears with the dog and says,” That’ll be three dollars please.” As I pull the money from my purse, she notices a little chocolate on her hand and excuses herself to wash the blood from surgery off her hand. She returns, and while she is giving me some discharge instructions, I drift a little out of character and listen to Caitlin’s playing and then I wonder if I should have liposuction on my outer thighs or on the skin that hangs over my bra around my arm pits. I am brought back by Dr. Libby saying, "Excuse me, m’am, but I have other customers waiting behind you." as she grabs my cup for another sip. I quickly return to my role and tell her I am paying by debit card and ask when my follow up appointment is. Dr. Libby says Wednesday and then says, “Mom can we stop now?” Caitlin is finished practicing and cleans her room.


430-530: It’s time to get Caitlin ready for the horse event and I make her some brown rice. Bronwyn joins her for a bowl and requests peppermint tea. Caitlin is emotional today and needs lots of hugs. She eats quietly, but Bronwyn has gotten up three or four times to show me her ballet moves and pictures of King Tut and has changed into a new outfit. Gregg returns from brick laying to take Caitlin to the Carder’s. While they are gone, I try to get Bronwyn to lie in bed while I listen to a book on tape and eat some rice but she wants to talk about why Daddy loves working out in the yard so much. I tell her people who sit in front of computers a lot like to know that there are real things to touch, see and smell. Secretly, I think Daddy just likes digging in the earth and would prefer to be a landscaper.

5:46 Gregg tells Bronwyn it is time for a swim. She changes from the leotard to bathing suit and as I type this, I hear them laughing and screaming. I will attempt to go back to my book on tape and see how long it lasts.


8:OO Gregg is cooking some dinner, Bronwyn is reading from her history book about the Hebrews and comes across the story of Moses and out of the blue says,” Daddy, did mommy tell you that Amy’s stripper name is Moses Bush?” I think the day is over now.

What's in a name

In Hollywood the old formula for finding a stage or screen name was to take your middle name as your first name and the name of the first street you lived on as your last name. For example, If I was a screen or stage star back in the day, my autograph would be Christine BuenaVista. Gregg's would read, Thomas Wedikind.

Now on the other hand and much more interesting, if you were a drag-queen, stripper or some other character in the burlesque world, your stage name would be taken from the name of your mother's first pet and her maiden name. I would be Schatze Schubert, and Gregg would be Copper Browne.

What would your names be?

Tell Me What Hurts You

This is an entry in a Brennan Manning devotional that I have been thinking about lately.

An old Hasidic Rabbi, Levi Yitzhak of Berdichev in the Ukraine, used to say that he discovered the meaning of love from a drunken peasant. The Rabbi was visiting the owner of a tavern in the Polish Countryside. As he walked in, he saw two peasants at a table. Both were gloriously in their cups. Arms around each other, they were protesting how much they loved the other. Suddenly Ivan said to Peter, "Peter, tell me what hurts me." Bleary eyed, Peter looked at Ivan. "How do I know what hurts you?" Ivan's answer was swift: "If you don't know what hurts me, how can you say you love me?"

Do you know what made Jesus so loving a person, the greatest lover in history? He knew what hurt us. He knew then and he knows now--the love and hates, hopes and fears, the joys and sadnesses of each of us. This is not pious poetry. The risen Jesus is not a vague figure in outer space. His resurrection did not remove him from us: it simply made it possible for him to touch not Naim but New Orleans, not only Magdalene but me. Christian living makes no sense unless we believe that at this moment, Jesus knows what hurts us. Not only knows but, knowing, seeks us out--whatever our kind of poverty or pain, however we weep, wherever we feel unloved.

These words make me think about how quick I am to say I love this one or that one, when in fact this may really be an affinity to another's personality, talents or benevolence. I think I have more of an affinity for people than I have a knowing love of their hurts. How false it is to say we love each other and yet never study the levels of another's hurt with any real depth or integrity. We would rather eye a brokeness and shun it or fix it with a patch of shallow religious effort, than know someone's inner battles or spiritual struggles. I guess the fear of being fixed by others is what keeps us convinced that we'll be having only Jesus privy to our pain ,thank you very much. And on many levels, I am sure this is the wisest path. This has worked for me. And what really makes me think more deeply and fearfully about these words is when someone knows what hurts you and they inflict that very pain....or remain indifferent to it. I have done this before, have you?

And finally, as I really ponder this devotional insight, I think when I tell Jesus how much I love Him, can I honestly say I know what hurts Him?

My friend


I really love my friend Carolyn, the budnickchick...she gets it.

Turning over a new blog

I turned 44 yesterday.  Instead of turning over a new leaf, as some do in mid-life, I thought......why not change my blogskin? That's safe. Getting plastic surgery; nursing AIDS orphans in a third world country;  having that change of life baby and moving to the Pacific Northwest while going to college to become a writer might be a bit too risky. Yes, a blog-skin change is a good start to entering my mid-life crisis. 

Happy Birthday to me and here's to hormonal Armageddon.

  
 How or rather how not to end the willing suspension of disbelief…..
 
“The willing suspension of disbelief is the ability to believe which is born firmly in all children, and which often withers as we are taught that the world of faerie imagination is not true.”
 
I was reading these thoughts from a book on faith and art; they made me think about a conversation with Bronwyn a week ago. She and I had just dropped off her sister for a violin lesson, as we were going to use that time, as the good stewards of it we were, to knock grocery shopping at the big Wal-Mart off our laundry list of tasks for the day. Always the eager grocery assistant, especially when sissy is not around to be the older efficient one, Bronwyn prepared a piece of paper and pen for my dictation of the items needed. She was in a happy- I am- alone-with mommy-and-doing important things-mood and just out of the blue she asked, “Mom, Is Santa Clause real…really you can tell me?”  I must preface her inquiry with the fact that for her entire life up to this point we had facilitated the willing suspension of disbelief in the old guy in the red suit and went to great lengths to keep her well coated in her delusion. But today, she wanted the facts or at least she SEEMED to.
 
I paused for a long time as I tried to decide if I should tell her the facts or let her suspension of disbelief wear out on its own. It was a long and difficult pause. She was asking after all, point blank, for the real answer….obviously the time for bursting balloons and shooting down the “Santa suspension” from the sky was at hand.  

This Christmas, I attempted to convince myself, would be easy, no silly Santa lists, or placing Santa gifts all unwrapped in creative vignettes as if he had done it in his make-believe elf fashion.  And best of all, Jesus wouldn’t have to share his glory with some old myth and commercial symbol perpetuated by this evil, consumer culture while poor children are starving in the Sudan for goodness sakes! Yes, my opportunity had come. We had been in error to ever allow her to believe.  Now was my hour to repent of Santa heresy.   “No, he is not real,” I said.   
 
In the softest little voice, and in a sound of disappointment that seemed to have come from her soul and which I had never heard from her before, she sighed, as she said,”Aw, I wanted him to be real....are you sure?”  I looked at her profile in the rear view mirror. She gazed out the window in deep concentration watching things pass by.  Her little profile looked so sad and her scraggly cotton hair didn’t seem as spunky as it had before when we started the list. She seemed a little wilted.  And suddenly I felt like I did when I was a child and had picked a flower in the moment of selfish desire and grew sad as it prematurely wilted and died. “I’m sure,” I lamented.  
 
We both grew silent and I began an inner dialogue assailing myself for ever making the stupid parenting mistake of letting her believe in something that wasn’t real for all these years. Didn’t I know better? All the experts and well meaning parents had warned me.  Encouraging the Santa thing could cause her to come to a conclusion that Jesus isn’t real one day.  Didn't I know better?  And now, I had basically revealed her parents as untruthful hoax perpetuators deceiving her all these years….”What kind of parent am I?" I railed accusingly; creating cognitive dissonance in the mind of an innocent child "….."Why, it would be better that a millstone had been tied around your…..stop!!! " 
 
And then, I had this wonderful idea. I will fix this sad moment. I will tell her the story of the real St. Nicholas of Patara.  I knew it so well, history and all. I would teach her of his pious anonymous Christian charity to the poor and oppressed. I would draw a picture of real Christmas love because, after all, for God’s sake, children are starving in the Sudan…and nothing perpetuates that suffering more than belief in that evil, consumer idol, Santa Claus with his Michael Moore size belly and extravagant toy giving. As I continued in my verbal spasm, preaching the gospel of the real St. Nick and Baby Jesus, her reflection in the rear view wilted a little more and then she said, “Just tell me the things I need to write down on the list.”
 
Willing suspension of disbelief is like a beautiful flower bed meant to fade in its own time. There is a fence around this display of delicate wonder and there is a sign on the fence that reads: DON’T PICK THE FLOWERS.

Right now.....

Mental illness is a thief. It is insidious and discouraging. It is a cold sore that people, because they are forced to, look at and can do nothing except comment on its ugliness once they've retreated from it. To struggle with mind or emotion is to engage an opponent that will stand its ground amid cognitive platitudes, patronizing and potions. Today it wins.

The Piano

We now have a piano. We bought it last night from Steve and Yvette. Kenny and Dave were strong and kind enough to help Gregg bring it home. It needs some tuning but it is beautiful. I have always wanted a piano because everyone gets a little friendlier when they are around one.

Ever since I can remember, my sister has had a piano in her home. Her daughters have been raised on it and play well. When I go to her house for special occasions, Caitlin plays her latest violin piece and her cousins play from their repertoire. The piano is a part of the family. There have been times when my sister didn’t know where the rent would come from and it looked like the family spinnet would have to be sacrificed, but somehow something came through, the piano was spared and has played a role in making my nieces who they are.

Now, as the newest family member sits adjusting to its new surroundings, I can’t help but be a little foolish as I fascinate about maybe hearing Bronwyn(or Caitlin) play Chopin one day. Or, maybe we might have some “family sing alongs", singing hymns, show tunes, Christmas Carols and Elton John hits as we forget about our troubles and tin ears. But for now, I must settle for Bronwyn’s and Caitlin’s original compositions and a little less quiet.

The Language of Abandonment

Wonderful things were spoken last night at Apex. It felt as if I was someone who had been in a foreign land for a long time and suddenly heard my mother tongue spoken. It was familiar and affirming to me and very strengthening.

Maybe that is what the foreigners felt when they heard the Apostles speaking of the wonders of God in their own tongue while they were visiting Jerusalem…..I don’t know.

The language of abandonment to Jesus is rarely heard these days and if you ever have lived in a foreign country rarely hearing or getting the opportunity to communicate in your tongue, you know how lonely it can be.

A Long Obedience in the Same Direction

That is a title to a book that just got to me. Sometime in the future I will read that book. Books help me. I guess the words struck me because I have been teaching ancient history at home to the girls studying the journey of how nomadic people on different continents wandered foraging and following their food supply until they settled near the great rivers and eventually became highly developed civilizations. It is in man to desire and create abundance for himself.
Once the nomads could find easier ways to supply food, they had time to devote themselves to activities that make a culture a culture, and did they ever do that! When the earth produced plenty, they built architectural wonders to worship numerous invented gods, created writing systems, had flushing toilets and running water for goodness sakes, had art, music, established complex governmental systems and even had a couple of good old fashion wars to see who would be top banana.
One of those civilizations was the Sumerians who were amazingly sophisticated and far from their ancestral traditions of living in tents or caves following their breakfast lunch and dinner.... and it is from this empire of human achievement that Abraham received the unique call to leave one father and one country returning to his nomadic roots not just to survive, but to become a pilgrim son to another Father. He walked away from the realm which glorified human effort to follow the promise of another. And of course, you know the rest of the story...the story of a long obedience in the same direction. History doesn’t really change, does it?

By the way,

This story is laugh out loud funny and was an inspiration in getting enough guts to suggest a writing club.

Writing Club

I wanted to know if there was anyone out there in the community interested in starting a writing club. I would host it at my house. It would not have to be there on a consistent basis either. We could also meet at the library or other location. Some thoughts I had for the format are inspired by the book, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. My e-mail is hisheidi@cox.net if you are interested.

Kitchen Sink Lessons

Within your four walls there are places (at least for me) which are teaching places, worship places and resting places. Today I want to talk about my kitchen sink; It a teaching space. When I am at the kitchen sink, many of my unlovely characteristics spew forth. Sometimes out loud (to the pain of those within earshot) and sometimes I clink and clank dishes to the music of an inner, raging boil. Maybe the sink is one of God’s chosen places for me to learn because as I settle to the mundane tasks which meet me there, I repeatedly play false tapes, relive unfulfilled expectations and experience the darkness of my nature. I seem to become aware of a spiritual battle in this “holy place.” I am not saying this is the only geography that my falleness confronts me, or that I could just hate washing dishes, what I am trying to say is the sink is my “Peniel” where God regularly wrestles me. I seem to be challenged to surrender and come away with a deeper acceptance and love for Him.

I want to share a lesson that began in January when I was given a Hyacinth bulb as a gift. I placed it on the window sill at my kitchen sink. The bulb was a daily testimony as it developed in various stages from a green tip piercing the soil to a full puff of shameless perfumed blooms that overwhelmed me every time I approached my teaching spot. This planting brought Mark, chapter four verses twenty-six through twenty-nine to life for me.

A great portion of the life of this bulb appeared to be spent as blunt green protrusions which revealed little information of the true form it would take. Little of its life was spent displaying itself as a thick column of singular cotton candy flowers celebrating early spring. Its seemingly boring protrusional stages brought comments like...When are we going to see the flowers??...That’s it, that’s a Hyacinth?.... How much longer until it’s a real flower??? I always thought it interesting that I was totally powerless to force what would only come when the Husbandman was ready. If I had the power to do that, it would be false...evil.

My part in the life of the bulb was a surrender to the life process of a Hyacinth and a commitment to place a small amount of water in its soil each day and open the blinds...pretty simple really. However, many times I felt impatient with the slow growth, thinking, maybe it’s a dud. Often, I forgot my watering commitment because of the pace of the day and many times there were too many impatient little hands willing to help and the bulb became waterlogged. Yet, in some great providence, the plant was able to do what it was told to in spite of over or under commitment.

One of the happiest times while learning, was when I could see at the center of the protrusions the slightest hint of pink breaking out on a pale green cone. That was when I knew the promises would come and my bulb seemed most alive. It was hope. I didn’t have to see the full flower to know the beauty was there.

So many of my dear friends seem to be in the stages of ‘boring protrusions’ and others may be asking them where the heck is the flower, or they may be asking themselves....."Maybe I am just a dud, or worse, not a flower at all." I think we need to remember that flowers, though fragrant and a splendid show, are short lived and pale to the hidden life that actually produces them. This is a mystery that needs to be appreciated and accepted; especially by ones who only believe in flowers. My little bulb now rests quietly under a tree with heaven's potential in its now unattractive form. I have all but forgotten it but the Husbandman has not. This is what really matters most.

Obscurity is where all the life is happening---- it is the Kingdom. We must believe in the hidden life of all things. We are challenged to be committed when life feels like a boring formless protrusions. We are to hope in the mystery of the mundane and the slow to show. We are not to attempt the forcing of flowers to parade some outward effect for others or our impatient selves to see. That would be false....evil

Seeds become flowers, seeds become trees but "it is," as Oswald Chambers said, “in the innermost of the innermost that reveals the power of the life”. A little Hyacinth bulb on a kitchen windowsill proved that true.

"Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how."
Jesus
Mark 4:27

Today I celebrate 20 years of marriage. I found this poem written by someone else but the words are what I am feeling today.

We've traveled several rocky roads together.
Sometimes I didn't think we'd get this far.
Three children and twenty-five years later
We're more a couple than we ever were.

Years of trying polished off the edges
Because we both possessed the will to try.
What we got is one of life's great treasures:
A garden on the shifting sands of time.

Love demands a kind of self-surrender
That sometimes is with difficulty won.
All who join in marriage must endeavor
To make another's happiness their own.

This sacrifice quite often seems so easy,
But day by day and year by year it's not.
Trust enables one to love completely,
Living with one's charity unlocked.

Our love is like a deep and verdant valley
Nestled in the mountains of desire.
Though all of life's a dream that passes quickly,
We've made a place among the circling stars


Funny, in addition to this poem, the scene from Indiana Jones and the Holy Grail where Indiana has to choose the cup of Jesus from hundreds of others keeps popping in my head as I ponder my marriage. He has one chance to drink from the real cup or be be destroyed. He chooses the most humble one, drinks and is rewarded by the words of the Knight guarding the grail... "You have chosen wisely."

Springtime

The Late Singer

Here it is spring again
and I still a young man!
I am late at my singing.
The sparrow with the black rain on his breast
has been at his cadenzas for two weeks past:
What is it that is dragging at my heart?
The grass by the back door
is stiff with sap.
The old maples are opening
their branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers.
A moon hangs in the blue
in the early afternoons over the marshes.
I am late at my singing

William Carlos Williams


Sometimes poetry says it all.

Books

I have appreciated the book lists which were posted by Phil and Greg; many of which I have read and found equally insprational and influential.

I would like to encourage people to read the books they listed ,but also, add a few books that I believe might inspire or encourage. They were great to read as I began a journey initiated by Jesus calling me off the Christian Bandwagon and placing me under his yoke where I belong. The books are an honest, very non-academic, down to earth spirituality. I have listed them and some quotes.

Soul Survivor: How My faith Survived the Church ,Philip Yancey: Talking about the thirteen people that helped him regain his faith (and what a host of individuals they are and were), Yancy writes, "I became a writer, I now believe, to sort out and reclaim the words used and misused by the Christians of my youth. These are the people ( the thirteen) who ushered me into the Kingdom. In many ways they are why I remain a Christian today, and I want to introduce them to other spiritual seekers.

Messy Spirituality, Mike Yaconelli: Spirituality is not a formula; it is a relationship. Spirituality is not about competency; it is about intimacy. Spirituality is not about perfection; it is about connection. The way of the spiritual life begins where we are now in the mess of our lives. Accepting the reality of our broken, flawed lives is the beginning of spirituality not because the spiritual life will remove our flaws, but because we let go of seeking perfection and, instead, seek God, the one who is present in the tangledness of our lives. ( this man was so precious, he recently died in an auto accident.... I wish I had known him.)

Seeing God in the Ordinary; A theology of the everyday: Michael Frost ( I love this book and recommend it to other Bohemians especially ones bringing the poerty of the gospel to dark places): " The gospel is......a truth widely held, but a truth greatly reduced. It is a truth that has been flattened, trivialized and rendered inane. Partly, the gospel is simply an old habit among us, neither valued or questioned. But more than that, our technical way of thinking reduces mystery to problem, transforms assurance into certitude, quality into quantity and so takes the categories of biblical faith and represents them into manageable shapes. (Frost quoting Brueggemann).

Oh and by the way......the fog is lifting

A picture

I frequently check the shelves of the used book section at the Summerlin library. It is amazing what patience and persistence has brought to me as a reward . One of my great finds was a book of Carl Sandburg's poetry. It cost me a dime and has given me some moments of pleasure. As I glanced through it today, I came across one of his more famous poems: Fog. Whether meant to be or not, It paints a metaphorical picture of how I experience cyclothymic-depression. The picture is neither good , bad nor to be judged by me or any other individual-----it simply is.

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over the harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.




I have lived through many fogs.

You are cordially invited to a party (please read the fine print)

If you received that invitation from me and then at the bottom, in fine print, it said the theme of the party was a pity party with me as the guest of honor would you come? No you would not, because no matter how great the decorations, food or location the baggage attached would turn the dip and champagne into bitter swill.

That is exactly how I feel about gifts that come with baggage. Is a trip with all expenses paid to paradise a gift if you will have to endure dysfunction, awkwardness and be with out those who bring the only meaning in your life?
Is it a gift to sit in a café in France with someone who will only complain about the brie being too dry? No, some times to have a stale crust of bread in peace and meaningful companionship instead of a steak in paradise with strife and ulterior motives is a much better gift. I am sick to death of so called opportunities that come with conditions.

Fine Print: You have just unknowingly been a guest at my pity party. I apologize.

Descending

I guess since my last entry about my belief in hope I am being put to the test as a mild depression seems to be approaching. Since stopping medication for my mood disorder last march--- (A feat I consider, so far, successful as I have not yet been committed and my family seems to be fairly well intact) the way I navigate this territory has taken on a fairly routine rhythm. I make sure to increase gym days…I do more running, take higher doses of certain nutrients, and eat a more restricted diet and lower expectations of energy level as well as other things. Most importantly, I try my best to practice a discipline of crying out to God, a kind of intense (at least more than normal) clinging to Him. I also check all the belief systems of my self talk which becomes very negative, pessimistic and guilt ridden against Jesus himself. It really helps. You can be depressed but you don’t have to believe the lies associated with it.

Oh well, here’s to hope, grace and prayers.

On a less dismal note, my youngest child trying to relieve herself from the boredom of her 2nd grade reader, published by the Amish community, read the story of “Whiskers" the farm’s pet goat in a near perfect imitation of Doug Citizen’s Story Time with Christopher Walken. Today, she will have a comprehension test on the reading. I am curious to see how she does.

The Pianist

Some time ago, Joe blogged a reaction to the film The Pianist. It was funny that at the time he and his tribe were watching it at the big house; I was watching it in my very small one, alone. I was so moved by the movie that night; I told Gregg I had to blog my thoughts on it. But Joe had beaten me to it….and shared similar responses which I had as well.

One thing that he didn’t mention, which for me was the crux of the entire film was the music of Chopin. I felt the music, whether it was intended to be or not, symbolized God. It was the unseen yet palpable entity haunting this film. It was the beauty in the main character’s life that drove him to survive.

Since then, I have had the CD (which I bought over a year ago) playing everyday and have watched the movie three times as well. I think this film is really a film about hope and grace. Hope and grace for me are realities that often can only be appreciated when they are cast against a background of darkness and despair. The scene in the movie that so artfully demonstrates this for me is when Szpilman (Main character) plays Chopin for the German officer among the ruins and insanity of war. The beauty of God in that moment rises up leveling delusions of human superiority or domination over another. The two men are in the presence of something far greater and for one sustained moment, God has broken through in the most unlikely surreal moment. That scene is somewhat of a life picture for me of the meaning of hope and grace.

Since before Christmas, I think God has been trying to teach me about hope in very concrete events,,,,this film being one of them. I guess, along with my praises of this movie, and strong suggestion to watch it for anyone who hasn’t, I want to share that hope and grace are profound realities. As I type that sentence, my flesh says how simplistic and overly optimistic, given the headlines and the aging image I see of late in the mirror staring back at me every morning; But my spirit knows otherwise. And I suppose none of the people reading this have ever endured what the man in this movie did, but like him, we have had and are having our share of darkness and despair, but we must stand on the reality, though we lose our balance so easily that God will, at the right time, enter the moment and allow us to hear the music of his essence sustaining our attention in order that we may know that HE IS and we are able to survive