Courage, Dear Heart.
You don't know the story I'm telling - breathed out in golden shimmers and the faint scent of sandalwood.
Can you hear it? The resonant whispers of something great to come?
I know it aches.
I know it echoes from the emptiness.
I know.
And I see.
Oh, Dear Heart.
Courage.
27 September, 2013
11 September, 2013
Infestation
In retrospect, I should have known.
I should have been changing my tune the moment I saw him stroll across my living room floor, with his troglodytic face melted into an emotion approximating happiness.
He was well-kept- nattily attired even - in a linen suit and straw derby. But it only made him appear more incongruous with his surroundings. There was no hope of him proving to be a fantasm once the odiferous stench that accompanied his promenade wafted over to the couch.
In retrospect, I really should have known.
The garden gnomes had returned.
I should have been changing my tune the moment I saw him stroll across my living room floor, with his troglodytic face melted into an emotion approximating happiness.
He was well-kept- nattily attired even - in a linen suit and straw derby. But it only made him appear more incongruous with his surroundings. There was no hope of him proving to be a fantasm once the odiferous stench that accompanied his promenade wafted over to the couch.
In retrospect, I really should have known.
The garden gnomes had returned.
12 July, 2013
SK
The snap of the tent seemed to echo louder in the lit-skin dark behind my eyes. It was met and matched with the opening, aching strains of Taps.
It rose- the notes becoming the world all around - until there was only the wind, the bugle and grief.
Sorrow for a man who grew up on a farm with many siblings, became a man, served in the Korean War, came back and fell in love with a woman. Who married her, raised five strong sons and two beautiful daughters. Children who grew up straight and tall, a little rough, but a good sort. A man who did the right things, the hard things, because they were his to do. Who worked, and then worked some more. He applied his brilliance to his projects, his passions and his people. A man who unswervingly loved his wife with excellence and allowed her to shine. He provided the backbone and the muscle for those he loved to confidently explore and embrace who they were.
And I wonder that I barely knew him. I knew him mostly as the quiet constant, the solid unchanging. He was the one who was always there, coffee cup in hand, making sure everyone and everything was ok. He waited for hours on back country roads somewhere in Kansas, with the windows rolled down in a truck who's birth predated air conditioning, and read the paper while he waited for his wife and nearly a dozen small ones to come trailing by like so many ducklings after their mother. He'd water and feed and air tires and bandage scrapes. Or more often than not, just be ready to in case he was needed. He was the one who'd smile a little and ask about school, having chosen to study fatherhood over a degree, and nod and encourage you to continue. He'd wink and pull out the penny jar so we could play our first clumsy attempts at poker, our hands just big enough to hold the cards.
Who even in his twilight years recognized that he and his resources were needed and opened his home to his aging aunt. Who shared his home, his strength and his fixed income with her for seven years, spreading his and Grandma's reserve for themselves thin.
He was the one who after a lifetime of working and supporting still had enough left to give to a whole collection of grandchildren; barely a year apart each. Who still had enough left to give to me.
He has my admiration for the man I knew by his actions, if not his words, and the man I always suspected him to be. And I grieved and grieve his passing.
The honor guard pushed the last fold into the crease and- ritual completed- turned on his heel and marched smartly to the front. He knelt by the woman who sat straight as her back would let her, pride and grief in equal measure on her face.
"This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service."
"Thank you."
And I wonder that I barely knew him.
73 W0EKZ SK.
Oh how we will miss you, Poppa.
It rose- the notes becoming the world all around - until there was only the wind, the bugle and grief.
Sorrow for a man who grew up on a farm with many siblings, became a man, served in the Korean War, came back and fell in love with a woman. Who married her, raised five strong sons and two beautiful daughters. Children who grew up straight and tall, a little rough, but a good sort. A man who did the right things, the hard things, because they were his to do. Who worked, and then worked some more. He applied his brilliance to his projects, his passions and his people. A man who unswervingly loved his wife with excellence and allowed her to shine. He provided the backbone and the muscle for those he loved to confidently explore and embrace who they were.
And I wonder that I barely knew him. I knew him mostly as the quiet constant, the solid unchanging. He was the one who was always there, coffee cup in hand, making sure everyone and everything was ok. He waited for hours on back country roads somewhere in Kansas, with the windows rolled down in a truck who's birth predated air conditioning, and read the paper while he waited for his wife and nearly a dozen small ones to come trailing by like so many ducklings after their mother. He'd water and feed and air tires and bandage scrapes. Or more often than not, just be ready to in case he was needed. He was the one who'd smile a little and ask about school, having chosen to study fatherhood over a degree, and nod and encourage you to continue. He'd wink and pull out the penny jar so we could play our first clumsy attempts at poker, our hands just big enough to hold the cards.
Who even in his twilight years recognized that he and his resources were needed and opened his home to his aging aunt. Who shared his home, his strength and his fixed income with her for seven years, spreading his and Grandma's reserve for themselves thin.
He was the one who after a lifetime of working and supporting still had enough left to give to a whole collection of grandchildren; barely a year apart each. Who still had enough left to give to me.
He has my admiration for the man I knew by his actions, if not his words, and the man I always suspected him to be. And I grieved and grieve his passing.
The honor guard pushed the last fold into the crease and- ritual completed- turned on his heel and marched smartly to the front. He knelt by the woman who sat straight as her back would let her, pride and grief in equal measure on her face.
"This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service."
"Thank you."
And I wonder that I barely knew him.
73 W0EKZ SK.
Oh how we will miss you, Poppa.
28 March, 2013
Keepers of the Holy Eucharist
A little too late and yet far too early, I found myself driving westward, hungry for a patch of sky.
I had driven nearly to the edge, distracted by the grime shining from a suddenly-dirty windshield and the continued loop of a song I craved to experience, before I realized where my soul was taking me.
I tried to distract it with shoes and wafted the thought past, experimenting with the satisfaction of brand names and bargains. But a soul is not sated with such things and it pushed the gas further.
As the traffic began to thin, I started to look for the turn. Some end in pastures, others at homes. The only real navigation point for an infrequent visitor is the steeple that's visible above the farmhouses and sparse trees.
The gravel road was loud beneath my truck's tires and the music - finally - faded as I savored the sound.
The small lot was fuller than I had ever seen it; vehicles spilling out to Main Street and against the first row of headstones. I had the zipper on my jacket nearly done as I walked when the bells began, calling to the few stragglers jaywalking across the road.
I remembered with a Protestant start, that it was a Holy Day.
With the canter of the politely hurried, I mumbled to the greeter and tucked myself behind a column, suddenly uncertain.
The motions are familiar - stand, sit, prayers and sing - and yet foreign. It seems almost too ornamental for my inarticulate soul and my thoughts and senses wander.
He chants the men and women of centuries past as they look with icon stares from alcoves above. There's a quiet creak as weathered benches and pews settle, accept and support the faithful as they move through the rhythms of this observance. The faint hiss from the back coalesces into the sound of an oxygen tank, and I half-catch with my eyes the elderly man in the wheelchair laboring to breathe as he arranges the small plaid blanket over his legs. His suit speaks to the traditions of this evening and brings my focus back to the front.
Incense rises, curling as it swings, its scent not reaching back behind the pillar. His homily begins to the sounds of a crying baby and the rustle of its harried mother hurrying to the back in exhaustion. The couple in the pew in front of me smile in silent understanding, not missing a beat in their part of this service.
His voice is somewhat formal and modulated and in that too I am surprised, far more used to the voice of a friend.
"Priesthood is defined by the idea of sacrifice," he reads.
"What differs is what is being offered as sacrifice."
Jesus offers himself.
And though the language is foreign and the rhythms too formal for familiarity, it connects with the intimacy of a breath.
At the altar, the centuries are rolled back and we are present at the first Holy Thursday again, he says. What are missing are the apostles, but what is present is Jesus.
And with his name, I breathe what I know of the Carpenter. How does his perfect life, his compassion and justice, and his full humanity fit here? I am unsure, but there is a settledness that it does and with it, bringing practicality and muscles to these rhythms.
I leave, slipping out during a rite that's not quite mine. There's an aching in my knees as I drive away. They aren't used to that position. The wet blessing on my forehead is chilled by the air from the lowered window and my stomach growls, begging me to remember that it too needs fed.
David sings louder as the twilight road deepens and ancient rites fall into new rhythms.
Kyrie elesion.
Christe eleison
I had driven nearly to the edge, distracted by the grime shining from a suddenly-dirty windshield and the continued loop of a song I craved to experience, before I realized where my soul was taking me.
I tried to distract it with shoes and wafted the thought past, experimenting with the satisfaction of brand names and bargains. But a soul is not sated with such things and it pushed the gas further.
As the traffic began to thin, I started to look for the turn. Some end in pastures, others at homes. The only real navigation point for an infrequent visitor is the steeple that's visible above the farmhouses and sparse trees.
The gravel road was loud beneath my truck's tires and the music - finally - faded as I savored the sound.
The small lot was fuller than I had ever seen it; vehicles spilling out to Main Street and against the first row of headstones. I had the zipper on my jacket nearly done as I walked when the bells began, calling to the few stragglers jaywalking across the road.
I remembered with a Protestant start, that it was a Holy Day.
With the canter of the politely hurried, I mumbled to the greeter and tucked myself behind a column, suddenly uncertain.
The motions are familiar - stand, sit, prayers and sing - and yet foreign. It seems almost too ornamental for my inarticulate soul and my thoughts and senses wander.
He chants the men and women of centuries past as they look with icon stares from alcoves above. There's a quiet creak as weathered benches and pews settle, accept and support the faithful as they move through the rhythms of this observance. The faint hiss from the back coalesces into the sound of an oxygen tank, and I half-catch with my eyes the elderly man in the wheelchair laboring to breathe as he arranges the small plaid blanket over his legs. His suit speaks to the traditions of this evening and brings my focus back to the front.
Incense rises, curling as it swings, its scent not reaching back behind the pillar. His homily begins to the sounds of a crying baby and the rustle of its harried mother hurrying to the back in exhaustion. The couple in the pew in front of me smile in silent understanding, not missing a beat in their part of this service.
His voice is somewhat formal and modulated and in that too I am surprised, far more used to the voice of a friend.
"Priesthood is defined by the idea of sacrifice," he reads.
"What differs is what is being offered as sacrifice."
Jesus offers himself.
And though the language is foreign and the rhythms too formal for familiarity, it connects with the intimacy of a breath.
At the altar, the centuries are rolled back and we are present at the first Holy Thursday again, he says. What are missing are the apostles, but what is present is Jesus.
And with his name, I breathe what I know of the Carpenter. How does his perfect life, his compassion and justice, and his full humanity fit here? I am unsure, but there is a settledness that it does and with it, bringing practicality and muscles to these rhythms.
I leave, slipping out during a rite that's not quite mine. There's an aching in my knees as I drive away. They aren't used to that position. The wet blessing on my forehead is chilled by the air from the lowered window and my stomach growls, begging me to remember that it too needs fed.
David sings louder as the twilight road deepens and ancient rites fall into new rhythms.
Kyrie elesion.
Christe eleison
27 November, 2012
Out from the cave
A year has slipped by.
A whole year.
And everything is so different. And yet so the same.
I'm closer to the me that you always thought I could be. The one I didn't see myself ever being.
The me breathed to life by your words as they cast full light into the shadowy corners of the cave I squinted in, Plato for company.
I hope you'd be proud. I hope you are proud.
A whole year.
And everything is so different. And yet so the same.
I'm closer to the me that you always thought I could be. The one I didn't see myself ever being.
The me breathed to life by your words as they cast full light into the shadowy corners of the cave I squinted in, Plato for company.
I hope you'd be proud. I hope you are proud.
03 November, 2012
Unfoldings
These are days of unmet expectations.
When half-realized words rush to spelling; An epic unwritten, scurrying past the glacial-slow unfolding of time. When desire screams for satisfaction and the darker bent hurls shaded-eye forecasts of disappointment.
Days when emotions linger on the edge of articulation; When all seems to be action and reaction.
When what is before - here and solid, and in the mind's eye - falls before conjurings.
I am the delirium tremens, doubled-over and lost to the cravings of my desires.
20-second minutes come, tripping past consciousness with their satisfaction, their light. They bring short moments, captured and squeezed parasitcally. But they are overshadowed by longing and are gone, lost.
These are days of unmet expectations.
When half-realized words rush to spelling; An epic unwritten, scurrying past the glacial-slow unfolding of time. When desire screams for satisfaction and the darker bent hurls shaded-eye forecasts of disappointment.
Days when emotions linger on the edge of articulation; When all seems to be action and reaction.
When what is before - here and solid, and in the mind's eye - falls before conjurings.
I am the delirium tremens, doubled-over and lost to the cravings of my desires.
20-second minutes come, tripping past consciousness with their satisfaction, their light. They bring short moments, captured and squeezed parasitcally. But they are overshadowed by longing and are gone, lost.
These are days of unmet expectations.
16 October, 2012
Thoughts on plodding
"The essential thing in 'Heaven and Earth' is that there should be a long obedience in the same direction, there results, as has always resulted in the long run; something which has made life worth living." - Friedrich Nietzsche
Eugene Peterson, author and Biblical scholar, uses this idea of a "long obedience" to describe discipleship in the footsteps of Jesus. It's similar in theme to what missionary William Carey was describing when he said, "I can plod. I can persevere in any definite pursuit. To this I owe everything."
Plodding, by the very sound of the word, conjures pictures of long, dusty - maybe it's muddy- roads. The horizons is never close when one is plodding, it's aching, footfalls away.
Like Carey said though, and Nietzsche and Peterson were getting at, it's plodding in the same direction, in the definite pursuit, that brings eternal results.
Abraham did a lot of plodding.
"By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him on the same promise. For he was looking forward to the city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God."
Hebrews 11:8-10
The rest of this well-known chapter goes on to mention many other heroes of the faith, all of whom were "commended for their faith," but none of whom received what had been promised.
Sometimes, true though the principle may be, the thought of putting one foot in front of the other with "slow, heavy steps," sounds exhausting if not impossible. So, how does one sustain a long obedience and an intentional plodding?
Plod with a direction
"'... Be strong all you people of the land,' declares the Lord, 'and work. For I am with you,' declares the Lord Almighty. This is what I covenanted with you when you came out of Egypt. And my Spirit remains among you. Do not fear.'" Haggai 2:4-5
"See to it that you do not refuse him who speaks. If they did not escape when they refused him who warned them on earth, how much less will we, if we turn away from him who warns us from heaven? At that time his voice shook the earth, but now he has promised, “Once more I will shake not only the earth but also the heavens.” The words “once more” indicate the removing of what can be shaken—that is, created things—so that what cannot be shaken may remain. Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe, for our “God is a consuming fire."" Hebrews 12:25-29
Look back, remember your direction and take steps to be reminded
There is a strong Biblical precedent and command to look back, remember what God has done, and be reminded.
"Look to the Lord and his strength; seek his face always. Remember the wonders he has done, his miracles and the judgements he pronounced." 1 Chronicles 16:11-12
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, "We gotta hemo all da stuff dat make run slow, you know, da bad kine stuff dat jam us all up. We gotta hang in dea an finish da race dat God wen pick fo us."
Eugene Peterson, author and Biblical scholar, uses this idea of a "long obedience" to describe discipleship in the footsteps of Jesus. It's similar in theme to what missionary William Carey was describing when he said, "I can plod. I can persevere in any definite pursuit. To this I owe everything."
Plodding, by the very sound of the word, conjures pictures of long, dusty - maybe it's muddy- roads. The horizons is never close when one is plodding, it's aching, footfalls away.
Like Carey said though, and Nietzsche and Peterson were getting at, it's plodding in the same direction, in the definite pursuit, that brings eternal results.
Abraham did a lot of plodding.
"By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him on the same promise. For he was looking forward to the city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God."
Hebrews 11:8-10
The rest of this well-known chapter goes on to mention many other heroes of the faith, all of whom were "commended for their faith," but none of whom received what had been promised.
Sometimes, true though the principle may be, the thought of putting one foot in front of the other with "slow, heavy steps," sounds exhausting if not impossible. So, how does one sustain a long obedience and an intentional plodding?
Plod with a direction
"'... Be strong all you people of the land,' declares the Lord, 'and work. For I am with you,' declares the Lord Almighty. This is what I covenanted with you when you came out of Egypt. And my Spirit remains among you. Do not fear.'" Haggai 2:4-5
"See to it that you do not refuse him who speaks. If they did not escape when they refused him who warned them on earth, how much less will we, if we turn away from him who warns us from heaven? At that time his voice shook the earth, but now he has promised, “Once more I will shake not only the earth but also the heavens.” The words “once more” indicate the removing of what can be shaken—that is, created things—so that what cannot be shaken may remain. Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe, for our “God is a consuming fire."" Hebrews 12:25-29
Look back, remember your direction and take steps to be reminded
There is a strong Biblical precedent and command to look back, remember what God has done, and be reminded.
"Look to the Lord and his strength; seek his face always. Remember the wonders he has done, his miracles and the judgements he pronounced." 1 Chronicles 16:11-12
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, "We gotta hemo all da stuff dat make run slow, you know, da bad kine stuff dat jam us all up. We gotta hang in dea an finish da race dat God wen pick fo us."
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