Well this sucks.

No words and the sky

Language starts to fail in the utter quiet and open skies of gravel roads blanked in the weight of a summer night.

Three-digit heat has slowly succumbed to the occasional breeze, but it's still warm enough to melt the ice in a Nalgene.

Lying back- Army-issued wool spread over the dust- the sky unfolds. A study in depth and subtle shading, the stars are suddenly so much more visible, more alive and promising.

And language fails.

Doubt thou the stars are fire, 

Doubt that the sun doth move,

Doubt truth to be a liar,

But never doubt I love.

Hamlet

Pops and groans come from the engine as it settles, releasing heat. It's not enough though to disrupt the hush. 

The Big Dipper crackles with heat lightning at the horizon, breathing promise of rain.

The moment is short, but eternal, h

ung between the mundane and the Divine.

Johnny Cash and Kia

"There ain't no grave can hold my body down..."


Johnny's tired voice is accented heavily with dragging chains. He sounds hopeful, in spite of his exhaustion.


The Kia's headlights are surprisingly bright for such a toy car. Out here though, there isn't really any other light. Scattered trees throw huge, looming shadows on the ground behind.


Besides Johnny, there isn't really another sound other than the tires on the pavement. 


Distance and time are hard to judge. How to measure, except in the lines of the song, when it's the near-exact tree and the almost-replica billboard, and so on? 


The shadow and the lights, and the tires and Johnny combine to make an almost ethereal atmosphere. 


"When I hear that trumpet sound, I'm gonna rise right out of the ground..."


Grotesques loom and flare in the passing light. 


From the corner of your eye, it's almost believable that unimaginable horrors, possibilities and unknowns lurk just out of cognitive sight. 


Miles melt away as the songs progress. Life, death, past, future, hope and sadness; Johnny sings about them all. 


And somehow, just outside the uncracked windshield, the shadows try to say the same things.

From the vault...

From Jan. 31, 2006

  I sit at my keyboard, thoughts slowly turning, not ever quite coalescing into definite shapes, ideas. A vague sort of feeling to describe an even more vague train of thought.
      On my way to and from work this week I drove past a European automobile showcase floor, sandwiched between office buildings and the local chapter of some variety of guild. A few blocks later I passed derelict apartment buildings, uncared for since their haphazard construction.
      A little earlier in the week I sat in the quiet, cool halls of the Federal Courthouse, sent there by work to get information on a case. The hush of the marble halls and the faux-marble pillars adorning the courtroom doors conveyed a silent message of some kind.
     When I was at the library, a weather-beaten man, wrinkled but clean, looked up as I walked past. He nodded his head, but when I smiled at him, his face lit up, opened.
      In class today I was told that the sun is going to burn out in 3 billion years. That "stars are made of other stars." Now, I wasn't left with a feeling of impending doom after such a dire prediction, but rather with a sense of wonder that it hadn't already burnt out. We exist in such a delicate balance. We lose touch, perhaps, with simpler things.
      And then there are the people. The harried executive, immaculate in his suit but weighed down with a briefcase and a cell phone, the man sleeping on the cold wrought iron bench and the teenager happily snapping pictures with her acne-plagued boyfriend.
      I walked along the side of the street, my heels clicking as I crossed. All the while the sun still warms the air, lighting the sky.
     A symbol, a covenant that I- along with the European auto show floor, the tenants of the dilapidated apartment buildings, the message broadcast in a whisper from the courthouse, the weather-beaten men, the harried business executive and the young lovers- are treasured by the Lord and not forgotten.

From A. Peterson....

It's enough to drive a man crazy; it'll break a man's faith 
It's enough to make him wonder if he's ever been sane 
When he's bleating for comfort from Thy staff and Thy rod 
And the heaven's only answer is the silence of God 

It'll shake a man's timbers when he loses his heart 
When he has to remember what broke him apart 
This yoke may be easy, but this burden is not 
When the crying fields are frozen by the silence of God 

And if a man has got to listen to the voices of the mob 
Who are reeling in the throes of all the happiness they've got 
When they tell you all their troubles have been nailed up to that cross 
Then what about the times when even followers get lost? 
'Cause we all get lost sometimes... 

There's a statue of Jesus on a monastery knoll 
In the hills of Kentucky, all quiet and cold 
And He's kneeling in the garden, as silent as a Stone 
All His friends are sleeping and He's weeping all alone 

And the man of all sorrows, he never forgot 
What sorrow is carried by the hearts that he bought 
So when the questions dissolve into the silence of God 
The aching may remain, but the breaking does not 
The aching may remain, but the breaking does not 
In the holy, lonesome echo of the silence of God
-
Tonight, I've got no words of my own to add.

Flotsam and jetsam

My thoughts are blown back and forth today.
It's windy outside; windy and warm.
And like leaves on the tree in the yard, my thoughts are tossed, back and forth, sometimes coalescing into a semblance of calm, mostly just slipping over one another and knotting together only to be drawn apart.
This is not a productive mental environment.
I want answers and accomplishment. I also want to skip out on work and spend the rest of the day chasing after the elusive flotsam and jetsam of half-formed feelings and ideas.
Now though, I'm out of ice cream and the coffee is running low...

Investments and funeral clothes

What color clothing do you wear to the funeral of a good woman?
The funeral of a woman you barely remember, but who influenced your life and others so profoundly that her and her husband's initial investments still reverberate with deep, sonorous echoes in lives throughout the city and country.
Is she most honored with the deeply respectful black dress clothes? Or, is it more appropriate to dress to celebrate a life well lived and a reward and reunion finally gained?

The funeral was small. Her death unheralded. And, for the most part, not unexpected. The tiny funerary chapel was nearly filled with attendees who- if their sartorial choices were any indication- represented the spectrum of class, occupation, and background.

And as the old story was told again, several points became clear in the repetition.

- You can trust Him, a life based on that trust is witness and proof to that truth.
- Spiritual investment demands and expects a return.
- Resources are tools. You can't outgive God.

Think, it was said, of how different her and her husband's lives would have been if they hadn't spent thousands, upon thousands of dollars feeding other people's children.

How different my life would have been were it not for that investment.