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15 August, 2017
24 July, 2017
"Who only stand and wait."
"They also serve..."
How to not read that as a permanent posting to second string?
It's not. I know.
But with the key turned in the engine, and the motor revving,
How to keep it "burning, burning, burning 'til the break of day" as the old song says, waiting for the checkered release of the flag?
It seems one must come at the cost of the other
to run full-tilt at the windmills before, or to have it all "lodg'd with me useless."
But it must not.
It cannot.
There is time to be used, not whiled, and waiting to be done.
How to not read that as a permanent posting to second string?
It's not. I know.
But with the key turned in the engine, and the motor revving,
How to keep it "burning, burning, burning 'til the break of day" as the old song says, waiting for the checkered release of the flag?
It seems one must come at the cost of the other
to run full-tilt at the windmills before, or to have it all "lodg'd with me useless."
But it must not.
It cannot.
There is time to be used, not whiled, and waiting to be done.
14 March, 2017
Stories
Almost intuitively, we understand the power of stories.
We know the ones that stay with us, that though they be “full of darkness and danger” like Samwise said, mean something bigger than the story itself, then the players themselves.
Stories change our ways of seeing and thinking. Of living and interpreting the world. And our own stories are by far the most precious. These are ones that are carefully kept alive, nurtured and visited in quiet mental gardens, stories of our own lives and those of friends who have inextricably intertwined their lives into our own narrative.
We offer the lives and stories of our overseas friends in weaving this narrative. These men and women are not caricatures, nor are they cartoons, but rather our best approximation of a dear friend, a composite of many friends, or a representation of our own self without the transformative impact of He Who Has Found Us.
This offering is an act of sacrifice. We are inviting others into the stories - of all kinds - that have had their part in shaping us.
We share these lives and these stories we have treasured up and protected, and instead of hiding these talents in the ground like the last servant in the story, we offer up what has been given to us on behalf of the Master, believing that faithfulness really is better than self-preservation.
This sacrifice and invitation is also an act of trust. We choose to tell these stories, to represent these men and women, for a reason. We are bringing the deep, dear parts of our own lives - or theirs - and offer them in a heartfelt belief that these are worthy stories to tell.
These are worthy people to know.
The thing about stories though is that they are not always immediately understood for what they are. It’s a disheartening thing to offer something dear only to find it rejected, mistreated, or overlooked. It’s even more devastating when the offering is that of a life.
But do not lose heart when this happens.
They don’t yet know what they’ve done in mistreating the story you’ve offered them. They don’t know the friend you are trying to share, the story of the life that has broken your own heart.
In the hurt, remember to our Father, the friend you represent. Thank Him for his work in the world and in the lives of those who are dear to us, ask that he would save the perishing. And for these students, ask the Father that he would light sparks in their hearts. Let the retelling of these stories rekindle your own heart for these men and women, our dear friends, and ourselves.
And then fan it into flame
that we - and these new friends - would remember that the time is short, and the time is now.
In lending our hands to this work, we have the privilege of helping love these young men and women “into being,” as Mr. Rogers put it.
They are not yet who they will be,
And neither are we.
And so we work, offering them the opportunity to grow together, to practice, to succeed and to fail.
Because we know the eternity-shaking power of a truly Good Story.
We know the ones that stay with us, that though they be “full of darkness and danger” like Samwise said, mean something bigger than the story itself, then the players themselves.
Stories change our ways of seeing and thinking. Of living and interpreting the world. And our own stories are by far the most precious. These are ones that are carefully kept alive, nurtured and visited in quiet mental gardens, stories of our own lives and those of friends who have inextricably intertwined their lives into our own narrative.
We offer the lives and stories of our overseas friends in weaving this narrative. These men and women are not caricatures, nor are they cartoons, but rather our best approximation of a dear friend, a composite of many friends, or a representation of our own self without the transformative impact of He Who Has Found Us.
This offering is an act of sacrifice. We are inviting others into the stories - of all kinds - that have had their part in shaping us.
We share these lives and these stories we have treasured up and protected, and instead of hiding these talents in the ground like the last servant in the story, we offer up what has been given to us on behalf of the Master, believing that faithfulness really is better than self-preservation.
This sacrifice and invitation is also an act of trust. We choose to tell these stories, to represent these men and women, for a reason. We are bringing the deep, dear parts of our own lives - or theirs - and offer them in a heartfelt belief that these are worthy stories to tell.
These are worthy people to know.
The thing about stories though is that they are not always immediately understood for what they are. It’s a disheartening thing to offer something dear only to find it rejected, mistreated, or overlooked. It’s even more devastating when the offering is that of a life.
But do not lose heart when this happens.
They don’t yet know what they’ve done in mistreating the story you’ve offered them. They don’t know the friend you are trying to share, the story of the life that has broken your own heart.
In the hurt, remember to our Father, the friend you represent. Thank Him for his work in the world and in the lives of those who are dear to us, ask that he would save the perishing. And for these students, ask the Father that he would light sparks in their hearts. Let the retelling of these stories rekindle your own heart for these men and women, our dear friends, and ourselves.
And then fan it into flame
that we - and these new friends - would remember that the time is short, and the time is now.
In lending our hands to this work, we have the privilege of helping love these young men and women “into being,” as Mr. Rogers put it.
They are not yet who they will be,
And neither are we.
And so we work, offering them the opportunity to grow together, to practice, to succeed and to fail.
Because we know the eternity-shaking power of a truly Good Story.
10 December, 2016
centripetal force
Ain't nobody got time today for form and process.
The wind cuts through two layers and the sherpa lining of certified work gear.
Or maybe it's just everywhere else that's cold.
A walking, heated thoracic cavity within icy knees and fingers.
Breach of protocol aside, it's a straight march to the dead center and the cracked stone table.
Is it secret, is it safe - that burden left like so much litter, tucked up underneath this Fount of Over-Looked Blessing?
Somehow, it is. Right where I painfully dropped it - or was it wrenched from my Stockholm grasp?
And maybe that's why it all feels too easy -
Everything is already where it is supposed to be.
03 October, 2016
Albatross
He leans back, supported only really by the mast behind him.
His curly hair nearly grinding into the grain of the wood; an attempt to shore up knees, buckling and weak.
There's no respite in sleep. No escape from the deafening stillness of catastrophe -
the air in these doldrums is choking with holistic hypohidrosis.
A half-sigh and a guttural heave as he smashes his head against the beam in a half-formed prayer,
"Oh, Aslan..."
His curly hair nearly grinding into the grain of the wood; an attempt to shore up knees, buckling and weak.
There's no respite in sleep. No escape from the deafening stillness of catastrophe -
the air in these doldrums is choking with holistic hypohidrosis.
A half-sigh and a guttural heave as he smashes his head against the beam in a half-formed prayer,
"Oh, Aslan..."
09 September, 2016
Impetigo
Burn it away.
None of the newer pharmacology will do it. None of these miracle drugs will effect a true cure.
They'll contain. And they'll cover.
But never cure.
So burn it away. Soften, hold up to the light,
and
ignite
the
fire.
None of the newer pharmacology will do it. None of these miracle drugs will effect a true cure.
They'll contain. And they'll cover.
But never cure.
So burn it away. Soften, hold up to the light,
and
ignite
the
fire.
30 August, 2016
Jump cuts
It's never enough.
Enough to quiet the words.
Enough to quiet, well... really anything.
There are always questions. Always doubts.
Always.
Shakespeare is playing in there. So's the Eagles, a couple of bars of "Where in the World is Carmen San Diego."
Random cartoon-like bubbles of conversations from days, weeks, years ago.
A whiff of a Central Asian road nearly a decade ago.
There are jump cuts enough to muddy the lines.
And the prevailing thought echoes the Teacher,
"Meaningless, meaningless. Everything is meaningless."
Enough to quiet the words.
Enough to quiet, well... really anything.
There are always questions. Always doubts.
Always.
Shakespeare is playing in there. So's the Eagles, a couple of bars of "Where in the World is Carmen San Diego."
Random cartoon-like bubbles of conversations from days, weeks, years ago.
A whiff of a Central Asian road nearly a decade ago.
There are jump cuts enough to muddy the lines.
And the prevailing thought echoes the Teacher,
"Meaningless, meaningless. Everything is meaningless."
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