Smells

The smell of decaying vegetation is the same the world over.
There's no dialect of rot, no changing intonation in the fundamental scent.

It's the smell of active entropy, reminding those who inhale that they are powerless to the sway of its inevitable persuasion.

But, all is not death.

When the wind catches right, you can smell the beginnings of the stench of life.

Southern drawls and Middle Eastern sandals

Maybe it's just his voice, that scratching, soft voice; strength wrapped in an accent. A voice that, though it is gentle, can be roused to anger or joy.

It may be the difference of hearing it spoken, rather than reading the words.

Whatever it is, it brings the centuries-old Truth to a different light.

How could you not love the Man he speaks of? He sees. Everything and everyone. The Invisible are brought to light and told they matter and they are invited. Those sunburned from the spotlight are told that Reality has a different structure than what they knew.

The long-squelched whispers of hope and longings for justice get just a little louder.

This Man walks the paths of small towns and the highways of the invaders, always moving, always meeting. He comes with power, living and breathing, clothed in the muscles, dust and strength of a Carpenter.

Is it just Johnny's voice that breathes these people into three-dimensional form? How had they become so flattened? How had He become so flat?

This Man looks with compassion, He loves, He invites, and He is blunt at times. "He is not safe, but He is good," as it has been said.

Colored by this voice, this Man is easy to see as one who laughs, eats, wears shoes and sleeps. He is full and He is alive.

As Johnny continues, walking through the week from palms to blood, I'm brought to tears. I think how I would feel if men I know, care for, have spent time with, were made to experience the same? This Man not only had followers, He had friends. He had a mother.

To see, to hear my friend being beaten. Someone I had cooked for, talked with, spent time with...

It's unthinkable.

Is that a tremor in Johnny's voice? It's finished. His friends bury Him. And His mother goes home, the remnants of the yearly celebration no doubt still in sight, her arms and heart empty.

Those days are silent.

But Johnny is not done, and neither is the CD.

Early in the morning - How could it not be? How to sleep, let alone wait for the day to begin? - they returned.

And everything had changed.

How could you not love this Man?

Creeds and perspective

There is no escaping the indelible time stamp of 80s pop music.

It can be remixed, redone and rerecorded, but underneath all of that there's still that inherent earworm quality. During that seemingly inescapable decade, a particular genre of music sang about being warriors. With lines like, "Satan, bite the dust," and "The warrior is a child," there was a collective and culture theme of struggle and self-identification with ongoing battle. It was real, it was raw- albeit coated with newly discovered sound effects, post production and synthesizers - and we loved it.

Flashforward almost 20 years.

There was only half an hour left. The story had built - tension and intrigue layering - until this moment, and only 30 minutes were left for everything to right itself. Sitting there, safely sheltered from the persistent rain, a niggling whisper started to make itself known.

There's no way this can be made right.

No way for him to be reunited with his wife. His baby. His men.

This is not going to end happily.

And, as it has so many, many times, honor and valor won their tragic victory over self-preservation, and he did what needed to be done. There was no other choice, explained the narrarator. Nothing else for it. It was the mission first, his men (and wife) second, and himself last.

And so she honored his memory, his sacrifice, and buried him. What remained of his men were in attendence; his lieutenant weeping, wishing it had been him. And the mission continued, continues.

As does ours.

"So God led the people around by the desert road toward the Red Sea. The Israelites went up out of Egypt armed for battle." 

Desert roads, flawed people, and a world coagulating in sin mix to an unpleasant jambalaya, but our objective remains the same. We march - or crawl - onward in weak obedience, regardless. Like Marines who define themselves by their willingness to embrace the tasks that would make others flinch, it's ours to "Embrace the Suck."

The difficulties we face are far from a pop culture ideology; our roles are not synthesizer-toned pleasantness. Rather, we face difficulty because it is our job description.

"In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."

The grave is empty, and the battle decided.

The only easy day was yesterday. So further up, and further in.

Garden movement

Walking through the story, each new station brings the mental picture to life with another shade of color.
the physicality of it - walking and stopping - the wind and the slight chill to the air bring a different, literal feel to the familiar story.

the mockery of a trial concludes and He's sentenced, events in motion an eternity in the making.

here He falls. There, rises again.

and the etching of His mother knocks me back like never before.

Did she scream? Did she have to be held back? Was she silent? Surely there were tears. I would have screamed until I collapsed.

And still he walked on, his footsteps echoing through time to the conclusion in the center.

I round the corner and feel as though all the air has escaped.

Death.

Even though I half-catch the looming figure in the center, grace just one turn out of range, all I can see is Dies and the horrible picture of His body cradled by his friends.

How his mother must have cried.

The last corner is rounded and the central figure is finally in full sight.

A marble slab, cracked. And graveclothes lying in a disheveled heap, rock solid in their uselessness.


Death is conquered.


The grave is empty, cracked and abandoned.
He is not here.


All that remains is the useless stone that once spelled destruction.


amen.

February

These restless, listless days continue as they have all winter.
They slip into each other, gurgling along, with an irritating, audacious persistence.

Time keeps going.

And I'm left like the character in the story, not sure which way to turn, my hat in my hands.

And somehow I keep my feet under me and I am still trying, though nothing changes and there's no audience to see my best work. Or even my errant slacking.

And time keeps going.

Conversations are interrupted, work continues, and I do laundry.

Still waiting.

Oatmeal and farm cooking

The plan had been oatmeal.
I had packed a baggie of oatmeal, yesterday, a Tupperware bowl and a spoon with the intent of finding hot water somewhere and mixing a healthy, if not completely bland, lunch
Instead, I was invited to lunch filled with noodle kugels, salads and handmade meatballs, a blessing that cost me nothing.
Once again as it has happened so many times before, the Lord took what I had expected and replaced it with something better.
Today the plan was once again oatmeal.
After all, the budget is tight and there is the future to plan and save for.
But with the memories of yesterday's feasting fresh on my mind oatmeal just seems bland and inadequate.
So instead, I take myself out for Asian.
My very favorite.
Over Bangkok noodles and egg rolls I luxuriate in food that really is my favorite and realize two distinct truths:
1) This too is a blessing, a grace. The spice, the sounds of the wok and the chopsticks, an undeserved and unwarranted help.
2) This may be exactly why the budget is tight.

Christmas Eve

I sat in the back of the darkened sanctuary- just a little bit late- and tried to quiet my thoughts enough for the Christmas Eve message to be heard. 

Already this felt like a far cry from childhood Christmas programs full of excitement and wonder. I sighed to myself, knowing there was a full 45 minutes ahead.

I slipped off my coat and tried to silence the inevitable rustle. There was no one to ease its progress and it fell, discarded across the back of the folding chair, sliding down until it touched the carpet.

"Long lay the world, in sin and error pining. 'Til He appeared and the soul felt its worth. A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices."



This, this I could understand. Not magic and wonder, but tired aching and waiting. I sat, the phrase "at just the right time," soothing through my mind. It eased, a quiet balm, as two men in front of me started to wisp light touches over the neck and shoulders of the women sitting next to each of them. They each leaned into the other, enjoying the companionship and familiarity.


I prayed the lights would stay dim as I tried to focus beyond the row ahead. Catching a betraying drop, I breathed out again, remembering why I was there.

Thoughts wandering far from this familiar place, I breathed half-formed kyries through the mental eddies.

I focused again, catching a small New Zealander dressed as a ram for the Christmas story. I laughed, in spite of myself, and found my thoughts lifting.

The mountains of tinsel, glitter, and jolly mythological creatures have never been real. And they don't have to feel like they are.

A lonely, weary night.
Lonely, weary men and women.
All of creation screaming for redemption and rescue.
"At just the right time..."

Grateful for the rescue. Merry Christmas to all.