A picture is worth a thousand words. Several years of pictures sing volumes into the spirit of a man. I have more than 40 years of Christmas and Thanksgiving pictures that I rotate on the big screen with Christmas music and this year something hit me.
My Grandpa Lewis smiled big and he meant it. My Dad stays stoic and serious reading something I asked him to look over for me. My mother smiles big too. I know she means it, but truth be told, she is like me, there is a lot in there that no one gets to know. Sue is very happy to be there, wherever there is. Tricia doesn’t smile at all; she is the smile to everyone in the room and in the picture. She is the smile that is always in the room with me.
The thing that I can see clearly, is that there is a difference between a smile and joy.
Every year, my wife has a “Cookie Day” it is like Willy Wonka and the oompa loompas invade my house. I watch as kids who have been here for years and who are starting to decide on careers and school and bigger things come in sit down, and make a snowman out of a candy cane. They make up games and laugh. They drink soda and coffee and eat freshly decorated cookies. They have fractured tacos and eat and just enjoy each other. As they see the camera turn on them, they change in an instant to a moment of silly defiant mockery making faces and acting out what is really in their hearts, joy.
We talk to them, we being Tricia aka Mrs. Lewis or the Cookie lady to some, and each of them has a story.
One story goes like this: My Dad lost his job and hasn’t been working for some time, my mother is pregnant and we aren’t really going to have Christmas this year. Mom and Dad need to use school savings for food and bills. Things are going to work out though and I am going to be a Trauma Surgeon. What the...? I love this girl. She has it all, angst, fears, trials, Smiles and Joy. You don't get that by yourself, it's given to you.
Another is a beautiful young girl that is a little confused about who she is really. But she is for the time being very happy if not a little uncomfortable. She’s older than most of the others, but not really, not on the inside.
There are even some who lost their father tragically when they were very young, and they have survived and fought against the despair that must threaten them every day. And I have never witnessed bigger brighter smiles.
Some of them organize a small contingent and take to the streets, Christmas Caroling. Who Caroles anymore? Angels.
Then the pictures start rolling by on the big screen as Stille Nacht Heil'ge Nacht plays inside and out of my house. A fire burns in the fireplace and I watch as the central theme of Christmas dances in the eyes and the hearts of these very incredible people.
And I hear a voice in me that says “look at the faces.” I am, I respond quietly. “No look at all of the faces!” So I concentrate and watch them one after another after another. They are all smiling or smirking, eating and laughing while pointing.
Then I see it. I see what the voice is trying to get me to see. There is one picture, then another, then another and the same thing in it. The same person and I can almost feel thorns and roots and weeds wrapping themselves around him. He smiles, but only on the outside, I think.
So I keep watching, and listening, and then a little boy with denim shorts and a new baseball glove comes on the screen, his plaid hat askew on his head, and a pacifier in his mouth. That picture is followed by a snap shot of three little boys playing in a box pretending it is a fort that cannot be breached. Next is a baby picture of my youngest in a car seat with his typical smirk and gleam in his eye. And then finally a boy wearing deep blue feety pajamas and the brightest blue eyes you have ever seen, he turned 22 today. Then the voice I love to hear whispers to me “only on the outside.” And all at once I am filled with joy, and I get up from my seat and kiss that smile that is always in the room with me, and the weeds start coming off, even if only on the inside. And I feel like a smile.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
So much I love
There is so much I love about her that so many hate or brush aside. She is the light that shines, for now, so that many can see in the night. She is altogether lovely. I marvel at the disdain for all that she has represented for so long, when all that she has represented is that "we all just get along." But that is not really what they want. They don't want her to live and love and care for and treat and help. They want to destroy her. Like a bad spouse they want to change her. They want to make her what has made them hurt. Misery you see loves company.
No, even more than that misery hates all that is good and all that does not live in misery.
Can darkness abide with light? Can right, truly suffer wrong? Should truth bow, half way, to inaccuracy? Has a Thief ever broken into a bank to correct a journal entry against himself? Why must good bow to evil in our day. Why should not right stand firm against wrong. What is law if it is only to be applied to the law abiding.
This is NOT God’s plan. This is NOT the model. We human beings, not white men, but living breathing human beings are duty bound to either acknowledge the boundaries established by law or be overrun by the anarchy of children too foolish to understand their error. Too foolish to see the evil they perpetrate. Too foolish and too ignorant to acknowledge the havoc they reek on good men. They think they love, care for and help. Perhaps they are, but really for the most part they love, care for and help the one they love the most.
Wake up kids, you didn't even know what was happening when we watched you vomit for the first time. Don't you think the Boundaries of the Ancestors should be respected. Don't you think we have seen it or been told of it. But you move them, you adjust them at your whim, but know this, there is a God and He started the story and He taught your elders and He said "don't be quick to move the Boundaries of your Ancestors" for a reason.
No, even more than that misery hates all that is good and all that does not live in misery.
Can darkness abide with light? Can right, truly suffer wrong? Should truth bow, half way, to inaccuracy? Has a Thief ever broken into a bank to correct a journal entry against himself? Why must good bow to evil in our day. Why should not right stand firm against wrong. What is law if it is only to be applied to the law abiding.
This is NOT God’s plan. This is NOT the model. We human beings, not white men, but living breathing human beings are duty bound to either acknowledge the boundaries established by law or be overrun by the anarchy of children too foolish to understand their error. Too foolish to see the evil they perpetrate. Too foolish and too ignorant to acknowledge the havoc they reek on good men. They think they love, care for and help. Perhaps they are, but really for the most part they love, care for and help the one they love the most.
Wake up kids, you didn't even know what was happening when we watched you vomit for the first time. Don't you think the Boundaries of the Ancestors should be respected. Don't you think we have seen it or been told of it. But you move them, you adjust them at your whim, but know this, there is a God and He started the story and He taught your elders and He said "don't be quick to move the Boundaries of your Ancestors" for a reason.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
The Garden
It was so sunny and hot, in fact it felt like there was a heat wave. The old man’s rough, scarred and bony hands were gloved by burned, overworked sundrenched skin. Every day he would get up and go to work at a job that was truly killing him.
I loved to watch him leave and I got so excited when he would come home. He drove what was probably the last real, steel Dodge truck ever made. No, not some aluminum or fiberglass piece of junk, but real BETHLEHEM STEEL production grade metal Dodge painted a camouflage green, only without the camouflage. I can’t explain it, it was amazing. Not the truck, the time, the Epoch. It was a time of innocence, and education, and growth. I was a seed planted, watered, watched over. It was THE time that made me who I am. Every bit of who I am. Everything about that time the barn, the hay, the family, the neighbors, the garden had an remarkable yet unremarkable affect on me. Sleeping in a garage with three brothers, and spying, hearing him pray that each one of us and our sister would be protected in body, mind and spirit. It was great, I can smell it now.
I remember going out to the garden with the heat of the day beating on me and the old man, and he never complained ever. Oh sure, he would stop his work periodically and lean against a fence post and sigh a big deep sigh. I do that to this day and EVERYONE thinks I am sad or depressed, or something. People don’t get it, I am just conditioned, I am not sad I am breathing and I am smelling because the old man said I should. I do what my master taught me, I sigh and I return to my work. That day, that hot, late spring day, he told me how his dad taught him to plant tomatoes and corn and cucumbers, oh and radishes. It was great. I learned what it took, and what timing was all about. You see you don’t just throw seed on the ground or stick it in holes, you prep and you pray and you wait. Then you plant just before a full moon and your seeds will germinate more readily. I did it that way year after year after year, and each year they would grow and I would harvest and every time I picked a vegetable I felt joy, real joy. Oh yeah, each year, I planted and I prayed. I prayed that God, the maker of heaven and earth would say the word that would cause that seed to germinate, and drink in the earth and the water, and He does.
On that hot day, the old man made me cut rows by hand with a hoe and it seemed like it took hours. Row after row, we were chopping the earth making the soil soft and ready for a seed. He promised me that if I would ask God to help, He would help. I remember it like it was two days ago, he said to me, make a hole as deep as your finger up to your second knuckle (I had shorter hands then). Do that every 10 inches in the row. Put three seeds in each hole. Now we will water it. “There is nothing more we can do now” he would say. We would then almost ritualistically bow our heads and turn it over to the next Gardner and we knew He would always do what was right. What a huge blessing to have that time.
I mentioned the heat, because it is really integral to my story, and yours. I mentioned the old man’s hands because they were exposed to the heat day after day, month after month and year after year. The heat comes out of nowhere, and literally scorches you. You sweat, you tire, you thirst, you groan and you wipe your brow with your handkerchief (I know that because that is what the old man would do as he sighed and leaned against that fence). But as he told me that day, “Bub, if you will watch the ground where you placed the seed, and if you will water, weed and pray every day, the real Master gardner will say the word and make that seed crack open under the cool earth and out will spring a small root, and a sprout and then fruit.” But, he told me, “without the heat, there will be no death, and without the death, there will be no life.” There can be no fruit.
More than 40 years have passed since that day, two days ago, so much pain has come and gone in so many lives. So much anger from this world. So much heat. In the mornings, it doesn’t slow you down. It is cool and refreshing, so you don’t think about that heat coming. You feel like this is how it will always be, quiet, cool and restful. But before you even realize it, that old truck is coming up the lane and, turning into the gravel driveway, brakes squeaking and it dawns on you, that it is the heat of the day and you missed the morning. Worse yet, you realize the real work is about to begin.
Two years ago, I remember thinking that things seemed good or warm. I thought of that leathery old man and his lessons. But I complained, and I groaned and I wiped my brow and then I realized, it’s only morning, the real work is about to begin. I could hear the gravel under the truck tires and I knew I was about to get down to my chores. I wish I had recognized it earlier, I could have found so much joy in planting and waiting and praying.
In my house, in Carmichael, in California and in America, it is now late afternoon and the heat is beating down. Friends are fatigued and tempted to turn from us, and we from them, and many will. It is hot and we are looking for a post to lean on and a handkerchief with which to wipe our brow and cease from our labor, but the sun is shining and the old man would not allow it. “Pick up the hoe now” he would say and let’s ready that dirt for the seed and the seed for the word that will be spoken. And when it is spoken, the moon will pull as only it can, and the sun will shine down and the water will soften the hard seed and there will be a crack and a root and a sprout. And soon, very soon there will be fruit and a harvest and joy, real joy. I know this because the old man promised and I heard him talking to the next Gardner and I know He will always do what is right.
I loved to watch him leave and I got so excited when he would come home. He drove what was probably the last real, steel Dodge truck ever made. No, not some aluminum or fiberglass piece of junk, but real BETHLEHEM STEEL production grade metal Dodge painted a camouflage green, only without the camouflage. I can’t explain it, it was amazing. Not the truck, the time, the Epoch. It was a time of innocence, and education, and growth. I was a seed planted, watered, watched over. It was THE time that made me who I am. Every bit of who I am. Everything about that time the barn, the hay, the family, the neighbors, the garden had an remarkable yet unremarkable affect on me. Sleeping in a garage with three brothers, and spying, hearing him pray that each one of us and our sister would be protected in body, mind and spirit. It was great, I can smell it now.
I remember going out to the garden with the heat of the day beating on me and the old man, and he never complained ever. Oh sure, he would stop his work periodically and lean against a fence post and sigh a big deep sigh. I do that to this day and EVERYONE thinks I am sad or depressed, or something. People don’t get it, I am just conditioned, I am not sad I am breathing and I am smelling because the old man said I should. I do what my master taught me, I sigh and I return to my work. That day, that hot, late spring day, he told me how his dad taught him to plant tomatoes and corn and cucumbers, oh and radishes. It was great. I learned what it took, and what timing was all about. You see you don’t just throw seed on the ground or stick it in holes, you prep and you pray and you wait. Then you plant just before a full moon and your seeds will germinate more readily. I did it that way year after year after year, and each year they would grow and I would harvest and every time I picked a vegetable I felt joy, real joy. Oh yeah, each year, I planted and I prayed. I prayed that God, the maker of heaven and earth would say the word that would cause that seed to germinate, and drink in the earth and the water, and He does.
On that hot day, the old man made me cut rows by hand with a hoe and it seemed like it took hours. Row after row, we were chopping the earth making the soil soft and ready for a seed. He promised me that if I would ask God to help, He would help. I remember it like it was two days ago, he said to me, make a hole as deep as your finger up to your second knuckle (I had shorter hands then). Do that every 10 inches in the row. Put three seeds in each hole. Now we will water it. “There is nothing more we can do now” he would say. We would then almost ritualistically bow our heads and turn it over to the next Gardner and we knew He would always do what was right. What a huge blessing to have that time.
I mentioned the heat, because it is really integral to my story, and yours. I mentioned the old man’s hands because they were exposed to the heat day after day, month after month and year after year. The heat comes out of nowhere, and literally scorches you. You sweat, you tire, you thirst, you groan and you wipe your brow with your handkerchief (I know that because that is what the old man would do as he sighed and leaned against that fence). But as he told me that day, “Bub, if you will watch the ground where you placed the seed, and if you will water, weed and pray every day, the real Master gardner will say the word and make that seed crack open under the cool earth and out will spring a small root, and a sprout and then fruit.” But, he told me, “without the heat, there will be no death, and without the death, there will be no life.” There can be no fruit.
More than 40 years have passed since that day, two days ago, so much pain has come and gone in so many lives. So much anger from this world. So much heat. In the mornings, it doesn’t slow you down. It is cool and refreshing, so you don’t think about that heat coming. You feel like this is how it will always be, quiet, cool and restful. But before you even realize it, that old truck is coming up the lane and, turning into the gravel driveway, brakes squeaking and it dawns on you, that it is the heat of the day and you missed the morning. Worse yet, you realize the real work is about to begin.
Two years ago, I remember thinking that things seemed good or warm. I thought of that leathery old man and his lessons. But I complained, and I groaned and I wiped my brow and then I realized, it’s only morning, the real work is about to begin. I could hear the gravel under the truck tires and I knew I was about to get down to my chores. I wish I had recognized it earlier, I could have found so much joy in planting and waiting and praying.
In my house, in Carmichael, in California and in America, it is now late afternoon and the heat is beating down. Friends are fatigued and tempted to turn from us, and we from them, and many will. It is hot and we are looking for a post to lean on and a handkerchief with which to wipe our brow and cease from our labor, but the sun is shining and the old man would not allow it. “Pick up the hoe now” he would say and let’s ready that dirt for the seed and the seed for the word that will be spoken. And when it is spoken, the moon will pull as only it can, and the sun will shine down and the water will soften the hard seed and there will be a crack and a root and a sprout. And soon, very soon there will be fruit and a harvest and joy, real joy. I know this because the old man promised and I heard him talking to the next Gardner and I know He will always do what is right.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Choices
In the kitchen there is a big bowl of fruit. Sometimes it is all different, other times it’s all the same fruit. I was wondering which one was the best of the apples. I picked them up one by one, and I thought "I own them all, they are mine. I should just love them all the same, they’re all mine."
I picked them up and I smelled them. Each smelled so “appley,” and I loved it. I love the smell of apples. I picked them up, smelling and feeling each of them and then put them back in the bowl one by one. Experiencing each of them alone, and somewhere in my minds memory, I catalogued them. They are mine and I can have them as I want them.
I have owned a lot of cars. I started with one my dad gave me. I called it Kermit. It was a big, huge Mercury Park Lane. It was great. I also owned a Ford Courier. I got to have it painted by an expert Low Rider Artist. It was well, Bold. I also owned a Sentra, a Corolla, and a Maxima. But among my cars, I remember most my Ford Mustang GT. I drove them all, but I really drove the GT. It was fast, fun, loud and had that “throatie,” American exhaust sound that only a real American muscle car can make. It was for me, MY car I drove it, I really drove it.
Isn’t all that just boring? I spend a lot of time thinking. I drive a lot.
I thought back to the apples. Which one do I love the most? My boy Nate grabs one on his way to school, but it is mine. My wife may have one sliced up with her dinner, but it is also mine. Do I really love those?
Today, I had one of the apples. I picked it up. I was hungry for an apple. I smelled it. I held it in my hands and felt it. I looked at it, and I thought: "I can’t taste it. I can’t hear this apple." Then I bit into it. I tasted it, and as my teeth sunk into its flesh and the blood of the apple quenched my thirst and in an almost wasteful way, splashed onto my lips. I could almost feel the crisp crunch in my ears. I found the apple I loved the most. It was a miracle. One bite and I had my favorite. I didn't do anything for it, I didn't give it a gift, I ate it and I tasted it and I drank it in. It was so refreshing. It literally fed me while none of the other apples in that big wooden bowl did anything but sit there.
So now I am driving again, and I am thinking: "Here I am in my Chrysler 300C driving smoothly at 90 miles per hour. And I thought which one is in the bowl? Which one is my favorite? Which one do I really love?"
Then I looked in the bowl and in my mind’s eye, I saw all of my gods, and my God. And I wondered which one do I eat, and drink and smell and taste and love the most? There are so many, and only one that speaks to me or hears me. Only one that answers and cares. Only one that instructs me to Love Justice, Show Mercy and Walk Humbly before Him.
And He is the one I have not eaten completely. He is the one that stands and beckons me saying “come to me if you are hungry” and warns me “if you do not eat my flesh and drink my blood, you shall not…”
Truth is, the apple I eat is the apple I love. My lies are exposed, I can’t tell the one “I love you” but eat the other.
I picked them up and I smelled them. Each smelled so “appley,” and I loved it. I love the smell of apples. I picked them up, smelling and feeling each of them and then put them back in the bowl one by one. Experiencing each of them alone, and somewhere in my minds memory, I catalogued them. They are mine and I can have them as I want them.
I have owned a lot of cars. I started with one my dad gave me. I called it Kermit. It was a big, huge Mercury Park Lane. It was great. I also owned a Ford Courier. I got to have it painted by an expert Low Rider Artist. It was well, Bold. I also owned a Sentra, a Corolla, and a Maxima. But among my cars, I remember most my Ford Mustang GT. I drove them all, but I really drove the GT. It was fast, fun, loud and had that “throatie,” American exhaust sound that only a real American muscle car can make. It was for me, MY car I drove it, I really drove it.
Isn’t all that just boring? I spend a lot of time thinking. I drive a lot.
I thought back to the apples. Which one do I love the most? My boy Nate grabs one on his way to school, but it is mine. My wife may have one sliced up with her dinner, but it is also mine. Do I really love those?
Today, I had one of the apples. I picked it up. I was hungry for an apple. I smelled it. I held it in my hands and felt it. I looked at it, and I thought: "I can’t taste it. I can’t hear this apple." Then I bit into it. I tasted it, and as my teeth sunk into its flesh and the blood of the apple quenched my thirst and in an almost wasteful way, splashed onto my lips. I could almost feel the crisp crunch in my ears. I found the apple I loved the most. It was a miracle. One bite and I had my favorite. I didn't do anything for it, I didn't give it a gift, I ate it and I tasted it and I drank it in. It was so refreshing. It literally fed me while none of the other apples in that big wooden bowl did anything but sit there.
So now I am driving again, and I am thinking: "Here I am in my Chrysler 300C driving smoothly at 90 miles per hour. And I thought which one is in the bowl? Which one is my favorite? Which one do I really love?"
Then I looked in the bowl and in my mind’s eye, I saw all of my gods, and my God. And I wondered which one do I eat, and drink and smell and taste and love the most? There are so many, and only one that speaks to me or hears me. Only one that answers and cares. Only one that instructs me to Love Justice, Show Mercy and Walk Humbly before Him.
And He is the one I have not eaten completely. He is the one that stands and beckons me saying “come to me if you are hungry” and warns me “if you do not eat my flesh and drink my blood, you shall not…”
Truth is, the apple I eat is the apple I love. My lies are exposed, I can’t tell the one “I love you” but eat the other.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Shadows
I started thinking, as I often do, about a ghost, how did it get there? Really it is more of a shadow. The only real substance is that which I gave it in my mind, but it is there, I put it there.
When I was a little boy, it followed me. I remember nights when it would touch my neck and speak to me and the hair on my neck would literally go up and I would shiver. I began to move a little faster and work a little harder in the hopes that time and space would work their magic increase the distance between us. It never did. The specter was huge and I knew it was bigger than me, and if it wanted to, it could overshadow me and I would be insignificant.
Don’t think for a moment I care if I am significant. That is really irrelevant. The issue is this, the ghost was significant. The shadow was looming over me. I put it there.
Day after day, it would be there, it wasn’t mean, or angry, it was there. It helped me it punished me, and it comforted me. Every memory included it. Every thought was possessed by it. It was there, I put there.
I worked hard, I struggled with the things around me. Sometimes I would do things and I would make choices and the shadow would be there, it would say things and instruct me. I would be angry and yell at it. I wanted it to go away, I thought “I can’t see past you, move, let me see!” and it would move but it was there, I put it there.
I knew, I really knew, that it was there for me, the shadow was there for me and wanted me to see, to really see. It would stand with me in my success and in my error. Not like so many others who stood with me in my success, shoulder to shoulder, and in my error or in my weakness they fled like cowards. But not the shadow, it never left me.
Later in life people began to say, ”Hey you’re like that shadow.” No, I would say, I am not like that. I am me, I could never be like the shadow. Have you really seen the shadow, have you really felt the shadow? I don’t think so. I have heard it speak for 46 years, I have taken instruction from it, it has fed me. You have no idea how big it is, you don’t understand that I could never be like that shadow.
I have three boys, they're so great. I love each one of them for different reason. They are huge, they have substance that was put there by someone greater than me, partly the by the shadow, partly by me, mostly by the Great King.
They have character. They don’t think so, but they have such character. To each of them, they are all still dressed in old hand-me-down overalls and sandals. They are small and when I speak the hair on the back of their necks stand up, and they shiver.
They can’t see past me, they need to know I’ve moved. I’m small, I can’t even cast a shadow in full sunlight, but I’m there, they put me there.
When I was a little boy, it followed me. I remember nights when it would touch my neck and speak to me and the hair on my neck would literally go up and I would shiver. I began to move a little faster and work a little harder in the hopes that time and space would work their magic increase the distance between us. It never did. The specter was huge and I knew it was bigger than me, and if it wanted to, it could overshadow me and I would be insignificant.
Don’t think for a moment I care if I am significant. That is really irrelevant. The issue is this, the ghost was significant. The shadow was looming over me. I put it there.
Day after day, it would be there, it wasn’t mean, or angry, it was there. It helped me it punished me, and it comforted me. Every memory included it. Every thought was possessed by it. It was there, I put there.
I worked hard, I struggled with the things around me. Sometimes I would do things and I would make choices and the shadow would be there, it would say things and instruct me. I would be angry and yell at it. I wanted it to go away, I thought “I can’t see past you, move, let me see!” and it would move but it was there, I put it there.
I knew, I really knew, that it was there for me, the shadow was there for me and wanted me to see, to really see. It would stand with me in my success and in my error. Not like so many others who stood with me in my success, shoulder to shoulder, and in my error or in my weakness they fled like cowards. But not the shadow, it never left me.
Later in life people began to say, ”Hey you’re like that shadow.” No, I would say, I am not like that. I am me, I could never be like the shadow. Have you really seen the shadow, have you really felt the shadow? I don’t think so. I have heard it speak for 46 years, I have taken instruction from it, it has fed me. You have no idea how big it is, you don’t understand that I could never be like that shadow.
I have three boys, they're so great. I love each one of them for different reason. They are huge, they have substance that was put there by someone greater than me, partly the by the shadow, partly by me, mostly by the Great King.
They have character. They don’t think so, but they have such character. To each of them, they are all still dressed in old hand-me-down overalls and sandals. They are small and when I speak the hair on the back of their necks stand up, and they shiver.
They can’t see past me, they need to know I’ve moved. I’m small, I can’t even cast a shadow in full sunlight, but I’m there, they put me there.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
But then again, there is an explanation
I own things. They have no say in what I do with them. Sometimes I care for every little need they have, other times, I defer my maintenance. My involvement with them is really more of an emotional response to the moment, because I don’t look at things and say to myself “If I do this or that, the thing will be better off in 5 years.” I don’t have that perspective.
Perspective is an interesting concept. When my nephew Samuel was very young, about five, I think, he drew a picture of a battle. His dad is the very best Chaplain in the US military and so Sam grew to love and respect the military early on. So in the drawing of the battle scene, Sam showed some very large people simply dominating the little midget-like warriors against whom they stood in full battle array. Looking at the giants literally destroying the dwarfs, my brother said to his son, “that seems like an unfair fight, giants killing midgets, doesn’t it?” To that Sam, with a perplexed look on his face said, “They’re not giants dad, they’re just closer.” That is perspective.
Someone once wrote “But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for God’s own possession, so that you may proclaim the virtues of the one who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light. You once were not a people, but now you are God’s people. You were shown no mercy, but now you have received mercy.”
A “Chosen Race” of all the races that find themselves on the earth today, if you are a believer, then you and yours are part of the chosen one. The race of those chosen before the foundation of the earth, not black or white or protestant or catholic, but chosen. That is perspective. From my vantage point I am the midget. I have enemies that are huge giants, and they want to crush me. To me, I am in the middle of turmoil, I am pressed on every side so that friend is enemy and foe seems like friend. It is perspective.
What must the giant’s perspective be? I’ll tell you my thought is this: that God, the Creator of Heaven and Earth, is that giant. We don’t need to guess at His perspective; we don’t need to care, because it is His perspective. His perspective cannot be mistaken because unlike any other creature filled with pride He has clearly stated where He stands, what He sees.
Have you ever been to a wedding? I was in one, I had to have my own to be in one. People don’t ask me to be in their weddings, but they invite me, so I have a real interesting perspective on weddings. No one anticipates the entrance of the Groom. He is ultimately important, and full of value. He is the real character that matters, but no one anticipates the groom. Everyone anticipates the bride. If you’re a guest, a male guest, you aren’t the groom, but you love the bride. As she walks in, a sense of envy rushes over you. You see her like her father intends for you to see her, as so glorious, so beautiful and so graceful.
But the groom has perspective. An unobstructed view up the aisle, there is always an aisle. He watches the closed doors of the sanctuary. they appear so grand, so big, bulging pressing forward, like they are holding back the sun. They seem to bend and bow under the stress of the moment. And for him they are. The music always starts with the dun, dun, dun-dun, and then with what appears to be an effortless movement, the doors swing open. Out comes a gleaming light which to the groom shines brighter than the sun which the doors held back, and in walks the most beautiful creature He has ever seen. Transformed from her prior state of gorgeous, to real BEAUTY. It doesn’t matter what was the former state. Now, right now, she is nothing short of the last gasp of air He can muster. She is the life that breathes within him. She is the heart that beats in His chest. She is the Bride, the prize, that soul for which he fought and would now die. And from His perspective His knees buckle. He is stronger than ever before. He is whole and to take her from Him is to violently remove the life in Him.
In Revelation 21:9 I read “Then one of the seven angels who had the seven bowls full of the seven last plagues came and spoke with me, saying, "Come here, I will show you the bride, the wife of the Lamb.” This angel doesn’t say it as if to say, we can peek at her from afar, we can steal a glimpse and no one will know. No!, he is saying “Oh you have to see this glorious light, she was chosen by the butchered lamb.”
His perspective was that of one that was close up. He could really see her, smell her, and serve her. He saw her from the Lambs perspective.
Perspective is an interesting concept. When my nephew Samuel was very young, about five, I think, he drew a picture of a battle. His dad is the very best Chaplain in the US military and so Sam grew to love and respect the military early on. So in the drawing of the battle scene, Sam showed some very large people simply dominating the little midget-like warriors against whom they stood in full battle array. Looking at the giants literally destroying the dwarfs, my brother said to his son, “that seems like an unfair fight, giants killing midgets, doesn’t it?” To that Sam, with a perplexed look on his face said, “They’re not giants dad, they’re just closer.” That is perspective.
Someone once wrote “But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for God’s own possession, so that you may proclaim the virtues of the one who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light. You once were not a people, but now you are God’s people. You were shown no mercy, but now you have received mercy.”
A “Chosen Race” of all the races that find themselves on the earth today, if you are a believer, then you and yours are part of the chosen one. The race of those chosen before the foundation of the earth, not black or white or protestant or catholic, but chosen. That is perspective. From my vantage point I am the midget. I have enemies that are huge giants, and they want to crush me. To me, I am in the middle of turmoil, I am pressed on every side so that friend is enemy and foe seems like friend. It is perspective.
What must the giant’s perspective be? I’ll tell you my thought is this: that God, the Creator of Heaven and Earth, is that giant. We don’t need to guess at His perspective; we don’t need to care, because it is His perspective. His perspective cannot be mistaken because unlike any other creature filled with pride He has clearly stated where He stands, what He sees.
Have you ever been to a wedding? I was in one, I had to have my own to be in one. People don’t ask me to be in their weddings, but they invite me, so I have a real interesting perspective on weddings. No one anticipates the entrance of the Groom. He is ultimately important, and full of value. He is the real character that matters, but no one anticipates the groom. Everyone anticipates the bride. If you’re a guest, a male guest, you aren’t the groom, but you love the bride. As she walks in, a sense of envy rushes over you. You see her like her father intends for you to see her, as so glorious, so beautiful and so graceful.
But the groom has perspective. An unobstructed view up the aisle, there is always an aisle. He watches the closed doors of the sanctuary. they appear so grand, so big, bulging pressing forward, like they are holding back the sun. They seem to bend and bow under the stress of the moment. And for him they are. The music always starts with the dun, dun, dun-dun, and then with what appears to be an effortless movement, the doors swing open. Out comes a gleaming light which to the groom shines brighter than the sun which the doors held back, and in walks the most beautiful creature He has ever seen. Transformed from her prior state of gorgeous, to real BEAUTY. It doesn’t matter what was the former state. Now, right now, she is nothing short of the last gasp of air He can muster. She is the life that breathes within him. She is the heart that beats in His chest. She is the Bride, the prize, that soul for which he fought and would now die. And from His perspective His knees buckle. He is stronger than ever before. He is whole and to take her from Him is to violently remove the life in Him.
In Revelation 21:9 I read “Then one of the seven angels who had the seven bowls full of the seven last plagues came and spoke with me, saying, "Come here, I will show you the bride, the wife of the Lamb.” This angel doesn’t say it as if to say, we can peek at her from afar, we can steal a glimpse and no one will know. No!, he is saying “Oh you have to see this glorious light, she was chosen by the butchered lamb.”
His perspective was that of one that was close up. He could really see her, smell her, and serve her. He saw her from the Lambs perspective.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Opus Dei
It’s gonna be a great year, it has to be. 2010 would have to be blindfolded and retarded with literally no control of its bowels not to accidently be better than the past few. By that I mean the last three years have just been fabulous. 2010 is shaping up to be a year.
I bought my wife a new car. She loves it. It gets her around in style. I bought it for our 21st anniversary on January 9, 2008. I didn’t realize that I was going to be selling my business and then escorted off my property by my friend of 28 years. But I understand his dilemma; a young convicted felon out of Florida had accused me of making him uncomfortable because I wanted him to do his job. The beautiful thing is that my Chrysler is paid off, that’s a good thing.
It’s fun to start over. You first spend lots of time thinking of all the alternatives, what your talents are, how you can apply them to the lives of others and how you can make money from them. That takes about 10 minutes and then you think you just need a job. This stage I have called “floundering”, because you feel like you’re just floundering. But hard work and some studying can help you realize that there is no way at 46 years old you are going back to school and getting a degree and then becoming a lawyer. This stage I called “WHEW!!” Because you can’t imagine how much more I would rather walk around with my entrails dangling outside of my body than go sit in a stupid college of nearly any kind.
Maytag went out of business immediately following the day the Home Depot guy said this is the state of the art washer and dryer. I buy nothing but the best. Does anyone really need a washing machine? People did without them for hundreds and thousands of years. My new state of the art washer started making continuous beeping sounds and the water won’t stop running. It’s just the control panel so it can be replaced for just over the cost of a new machine. My Grandma spent hundreds of hours reminiscing with me in my back yard and telling stories of her childhood. The hard work that she had to do, how much she loved it, how close it brought her to her family etc. So I don’t really need the washing machine.
My son totaled his car. He just wasn’t watching, that’s the best way to describe it. I want to say that the lady in front of him caused the accident by hitting the person in front of her and then slamming on her brakes, but that would only be technically true. He had the last clear chance, and was too close. Watch out kids. The positive note is that my insurance was paid so they fixed the car. It did save me $10,000 because I had a deal with him that I would give him $10,000 if he went until he was 23 without an accident or a moving violation. It is a great father that bets against his children.
Here’s a really interesting side note. In my Chrysler I keep a small container that I had filled with “Bag Balm” this is an ointment that ranchers use to soften a cows teat. It works on my teats too, but I mostly just use it on my lips. Well, I notice small bits of brown spots at the bottom underneath the balm itself, but it never bothered me. My son asked me the other day what that was at the bottom; I said just something that was in the container when I put the Bag Balm in. It was. In retrospect, what I think must have been in the container before I put the Bag Balm in was Bacteria. Because when I finally took the swipe of ointment that released the liquid poison that was built up into a bubble and wiped it on my lips without looking, naturally my lips began to burn like they were on fire. So being the younger brother of a paramedic-firefighter-military security specialist-bomb diffuser, I did what I knew, I licked them. I was able to keep myself from vomiting though, and only had an upset stomach for about 2 hours. Bacteria go away after a while.
My car was due for an oil change; I waited a couple of weeks because I have had so much to do these days. I took it in today and they changed the oil and rotated the tires and I asked for new windshield wiper blades. They found about $2,000 of major repairs that need to be done because I am leaking oil and fluids everywhere. They’re a great shop so I trust them. Oh yeah, I had the foresight to make the dealer GIVE me a 7 year/70,000 mile warranty on my car when I bought it 4 years ago. That’s because I am a very smart businessman. My mileage is 73,736. I bet Chrysler will work with me though;
Internal revenue is auditing my former company and they want my taxes as well so I am pretty sure at any minute, my doorbell is going to ring and a doctor wearing a tool belt is going to tell me that my testicles are being crushed with a hammer because “it just seems like the thing to do.”
2010 will be fun (said with a raspy high pitched voice)
I bought my wife a new car. She loves it. It gets her around in style. I bought it for our 21st anniversary on January 9, 2008. I didn’t realize that I was going to be selling my business and then escorted off my property by my friend of 28 years. But I understand his dilemma; a young convicted felon out of Florida had accused me of making him uncomfortable because I wanted him to do his job. The beautiful thing is that my Chrysler is paid off, that’s a good thing.
It’s fun to start over. You first spend lots of time thinking of all the alternatives, what your talents are, how you can apply them to the lives of others and how you can make money from them. That takes about 10 minutes and then you think you just need a job. This stage I have called “floundering”, because you feel like you’re just floundering. But hard work and some studying can help you realize that there is no way at 46 years old you are going back to school and getting a degree and then becoming a lawyer. This stage I called “WHEW!!” Because you can’t imagine how much more I would rather walk around with my entrails dangling outside of my body than go sit in a stupid college of nearly any kind.
Maytag went out of business immediately following the day the Home Depot guy said this is the state of the art washer and dryer. I buy nothing but the best. Does anyone really need a washing machine? People did without them for hundreds and thousands of years. My new state of the art washer started making continuous beeping sounds and the water won’t stop running. It’s just the control panel so it can be replaced for just over the cost of a new machine. My Grandma spent hundreds of hours reminiscing with me in my back yard and telling stories of her childhood. The hard work that she had to do, how much she loved it, how close it brought her to her family etc. So I don’t really need the washing machine.
My son totaled his car. He just wasn’t watching, that’s the best way to describe it. I want to say that the lady in front of him caused the accident by hitting the person in front of her and then slamming on her brakes, but that would only be technically true. He had the last clear chance, and was too close. Watch out kids. The positive note is that my insurance was paid so they fixed the car. It did save me $10,000 because I had a deal with him that I would give him $10,000 if he went until he was 23 without an accident or a moving violation. It is a great father that bets against his children.
Here’s a really interesting side note. In my Chrysler I keep a small container that I had filled with “Bag Balm” this is an ointment that ranchers use to soften a cows teat. It works on my teats too, but I mostly just use it on my lips. Well, I notice small bits of brown spots at the bottom underneath the balm itself, but it never bothered me. My son asked me the other day what that was at the bottom; I said just something that was in the container when I put the Bag Balm in. It was. In retrospect, what I think must have been in the container before I put the Bag Balm in was Bacteria. Because when I finally took the swipe of ointment that released the liquid poison that was built up into a bubble and wiped it on my lips without looking, naturally my lips began to burn like they were on fire. So being the younger brother of a paramedic-firefighter-military security specialist-bomb diffuser, I did what I knew, I licked them. I was able to keep myself from vomiting though, and only had an upset stomach for about 2 hours. Bacteria go away after a while.
My car was due for an oil change; I waited a couple of weeks because I have had so much to do these days. I took it in today and they changed the oil and rotated the tires and I asked for new windshield wiper blades. They found about $2,000 of major repairs that need to be done because I am leaking oil and fluids everywhere. They’re a great shop so I trust them. Oh yeah, I had the foresight to make the dealer GIVE me a 7 year/70,000 mile warranty on my car when I bought it 4 years ago. That’s because I am a very smart businessman. My mileage is 73,736. I bet Chrysler will work with me though;
Internal revenue is auditing my former company and they want my taxes as well so I am pretty sure at any minute, my doorbell is going to ring and a doctor wearing a tool belt is going to tell me that my testicles are being crushed with a hammer because “it just seems like the thing to do.”
2010 will be fun (said with a raspy high pitched voice)
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