Time and place

The radio is quietly blaring- if such a thing were possible.

Then again, the lingering headache may have something to do with it.
The headache that is nothing if not persistent in its erosion of brain cells.

The parking lot is busy even out here in the back forty. The entire east side, it seems, is shopping this afternoon.

It's October and yet I'm sweating. But, to be fair, that may be due to the lingering fever I refuse to acknowledge.

Now that I've parked, the tired that's been gnawing away at the edges returns to front-and-center, so I slide sideways- taking advantage of the bench seat- and somehow find myself folded around the shifter and the seat buckles.

From this new vantage point, the radio seems louder, the sky seems bigger around the windows and roof of the truck cab, and the neural implosion has somewhat lessened its percussive ricocheting.

Somehow, quietly, it all seems so real.

The sick, broken and needy sighing for rescue; Whispering words they half-expect to never be heard.

"But when he saw the multitudes he was moved with compassion on them, because the fainted, and were scattered abroad as sheep having no shepherd."

The old Story that plays again on the radio sings it's way back into my heart.

Over and over, "moved with compassion," the Hero becomes part of the story He wrote.  

The heat is comforting, reassuring and grounding.

Shades of meaning

Thinking today about the differences between "Suffering," "Suffering for" and "Suffering with."

What do YOU think?

Earn these shields boys

Is it strange to cheer for men long dead, and battles long ago fought?
Larger-than-life characters drawn in the massive brush strokes of time?

Pheidippides making his final run to Athens.

and collapsing into death.

"This day the common cause of all demands your valour!" cheers Aeschylus at the battle at Salamis.
Empires built and collapsing on the weight of ideas. New dawns and blood-red settings of old ways.

The age of heroes looks far different now.

"Good, then we will fight in the shade."

Ice Cream

From the Archive Aug. 28, 2008


I found Central Asia in a cup of ice cream the other day.
I stood in the parking lot, spoon in hand, as I realized what has happening. I never expected it, never saw it coming, but there it was; sounds, smells and sights faded, tinged with time and distance.
And almost superimposed, like an epiphany in another language, I saw my surroundings.
The bustling, dusty streets of Central Asia were replaced with the paved, sporadically quiet streets that intersected nearby. I stood between the gas pump and my car and listened to the muted sounds of people talking in a nearby vehicle. They spoke my own language. The smells were different too from the memory playing in my mind: cleaner, less infected, but also less fresh.
As I thought about it some time later, this time eating ice cream that was only ice cream, I realized it was a gift and a promise of sorts.
A gift- a quiet, peaceful moment in the middle of an otherwise less-than-pleasant day.
A promise, a whispered, "I am here too."
But in that moment, on that day, I ate slowly; relishing the travel it allowed me.

Lightsabers

From the Archives Sept. 14, 2008
He flips the switch, and watching, you mentally fill in the distinctive thrum of the lightsaber. 
The warrior's eyes narrow, he takes his stance against his opponents, and opens, spinning into his first strike.
The blue light of the weapon is easily seen in the dim, overcast barn. Even more noticible is the fight taking place between the three opponents.
Circling each other, two of the brothers are unarmed, watching for an opening, while the third twists and turns, attempting to defend himself. 
Even from fifty feet away you can hear the scuffle of worn leather boots against the cement floor. The fight doesn't last long. It's difficult, though, to tell who won the battle when the fighters are laughing and slapping each other on the back.
The boys retreat to where their father is sitting nearby. He's next to the sheep pen, shearing one of the animals.
The former combatants relax, propping legs clad in worn denim against folding chairs and corral slats. All of them sit down- leaning isn't really effective when you can't reach the top of the pen. There's a little bit of straightening, tugging buttondown plaid shirts in a little straighter and making sure they're all still fairly clean. 
Having finished, the father sits with his sons, relaxing now that the work's done.

Marble

From the Archives Nov. 6, 2008...


It's not quite quiet. The wind blows, slipping over the vaulted roof, cutting and whistling across the outside tiles. Traffic sounds come through too. Noises full of engines, rubber and gasoline.
The insulated calm is cracked, reverberating and breaking heavily from the marbled floor to the roof. 
He settles in the back, full of sound, creaking and descriptive. 
He's all shuffles, bumps, rustles and groans. A pause when he figures out how to get settled, and then an echoing thud as he sits down.
"Hello, Lord Jesus."
His voice is easily understood. 
The surprise lasts a moment. His impromptu audience unsure of how to react. 
And so he continues, muttered words that hover on the edge of comprehension.
"And I ask your blessing."
Names and causes float upward, spreading. Mumbled words continue, slipping out in the cadence of conversation. It's no longer akward to listen; these accidental voyeurs.
Biting back a groan, he shifts and continues. His words eventually fade to silence, interrupted only by wooden creaking as he periodically moves. 
He hasn't come to pay homage to the glass or the marble. He doesn't lift his head to the intricate carvings or alcoves. He has come, it seems, to do business.
And when the not-quite-quiet returns, it feels almost fractured.

I shall not be moved

From the Archives, Aug. 19, 2009...

"I shall, I shall, I shall not be moved."
" I shall, I shall, I shall not be moved..."

A thin, persistant voice drifts across the hallway. Fragments of a conversation follow. Some are from the present, others from a past nearly forgotten. All circle back to a main theme.

"Just like a tree, planted by the water, Lord, I shall not be moved."

A nurse comes in and a chorus of beeps and alerts accompany a dialogue that has been revisted at least sixteen times already. She leaves again to tend to less vocal, more restive charges.

"... all because we do not carry, everything to God..."

The voice breaks off midway through the second verse. It segues disjointedly into a discussion over what is and is not expected behavior. The nurse has come back, having called reinforcements. It's explained that they are there to look out for, to take care of the voice and its body. That this is not home, but it is safe. Blankets are adjusted, pillows fluffed, and silence descends.

Outside, the sky splits, cracking silently, a white-hot cut across the world framed by the window. The lightning only comes sporadically now. The air quiets, calming.

"Are you weary, weak and heavy laden? Tell it to Jesus..."

Once again the voice begins. The words and rhythm perfect, even if the notes are not. Its body is too weak to remember what it was told. It sings itself almost to sleep, finally quieted by the one thing that outlasts everything else that has been broken.