Monday, July 30, 2007

Bridging the Gap

Ezekiel 22:30"I looked for a man among them who would build up the wall and stand before me in the gap on behalf of the land so I would not have to destroy it, but I found none."


The figure of clay stands next to the edge,
looking over at the abyss and seeing the other side of the gap...
Looking up, the Spirit moved within soul and sinew;
stirring up the faith within and speaking from deep to deep...

Hands uplifted
rising skyward to reach the hem of glory...
inward locks unfastened,
releasing scrolls and spreading balm as a drawing salve...

Prayer escaping from the depths
arises to the throne of heaven...
following the Spirit's leading to bring the needs
to the awaiting altar...

Spirit walkway grows and bridges
the chasm once supporting naught but air and warfare...
strength and beauty growing
with the blessing of obedience to the call...

Angels brought to conquer sin and darkness...
building steps to bring an end to gaping loss as
strength is brought alongside struggling clay;
raising high the banner of surpassing glory...

Monday, July 23, 2007

Rollin' With It

I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck while the computer boots up, a boxer waiting in the corner of the ring for the bell to sound. This is the life-- working at home with scruff on my face, sportin' wrinkled p.j.'s, and not having to share the coffee pot with anyone. I control the radio station, the thermostat and the lunch hour.

While the tiny hourglass hovers in the middle of the monitor’s screen, I plan my strategy for the next chapter. Finally, the hourglass morphs into an arrow, signaling that I can now open my document. I do, then scroll through three hundred forty-seven pages before I find the place where I left my characters hanging.

I’m just beginning to lose myself in my fiction world when a voice breaks my concentration. “Hey.”

My breath escapes in a huff before I can stop it. “What is it, Ashley?”

“Don’t call me that. I told you, I’m going by my middle name now.”

What is it with this crazy name thing of hers? I swivel my computer chair around to face her. “Okay, first of all, if I wanted to call you by your middle name, I would have made it your first name. Secondly, Delta is a family name, your great-grandmother’s maiden name. I am NOT going to call you Delta.”

“Whatever. Ashley sounds like a soap opera chick.”

My eyes catch a glimmer of something sparkling between her shirt and jeans, and my stomach churns. “Is that…a belly earring?”

She laughs. “Not belly earring. Belly ring. Isn't it cute?”

“Why would you do that? You’re not into that kind of thing. Why are you acting so…so…crazy?”

She rolls her eyes. “Obviously, I am into this kind of thing, or I wouldn’t have done it. You really don’t know me very well.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples. I have no control over her anymore. “Did you need something?”

She shuffles from one foot to the other. “It’s about California.”

“What about it? You’re not going.”

Her reply is quiet, but firm. “Yes. I am.”

“Oh c’mon, Ashley." I give her my most winning look-- the one that always used to work. "You know you couldn’t stand being that far away from your family.”

She stares at me, immovable.

“Ash…”

“Delta”

“Fine. Delta. Your mother will fall apart. How is she supposed to deal with this?”

She smirks-- actually smirks. “That’s your problem. Not mine. I’m going, and you can’t stop me.” She darts from the room.

Slowly, I turn back to the computer, my mind pondering the probable outcome if Ashley… no, Delta, goes to California. Her mother will sink into depression. Things definitely won’t turn out the way I had planned. But sometimes, you’ve just got to roll with it.

I highlight my last few paragraphs, then hit, “delete.” And then I begin to type:

“Delta’s mother clung to her, refusing to let the embrace come to an end. Finally, Delta pushed away. She avoided looking directly into her mother’s eyes, which shot guilt-rays into her soul like only a mother’s eyes can. She headed for the airport’s security checkpoint. I’ll call you when I get there…”

Three hours later, I’ve added two thousand words to my story. I’m amazed at the new direction things have taken. Delta’s mother really needed to face life without her, and the trip west is leading Delta to make some interesting revelations about herself.

Keys jiggle in the door, and in walks my Chelsea. “Hey, dad. Get much written today?”

“Yeah, I didn’t do too bad. I renamed Ashley Delta.”

Chelsea grabs a glass and heads for the water dispenser. “Cool. Ashley sounds kinds like a chick in a soap opera.”

My jaw drops. “Honey, you still don’t like body piercing, right?”

“Ew, no. Gross.” She grins at me. “Why, dad, you thinkin’ of getting your nipples done or something?”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so!” My heart rate slows to normal as she sits beside me at the table and flips through the pile of mail she brought in with her.

“Hmm.” She tears open an envelope. “Check it out. This is from that Bible school in California I told you about. I emailed and asked for information.”

I let the possibility sink in. Strangely, it is peace, not fear, which fills my heart. I am not in control of my baby’s life. Far from it. I’m not able to simply delete her dream of attending college three thousand miles away, because I am not the author of her life.

But I know the Author. And He is in control. I reach over to the computer and exit my document. Then I lean in close, next to Chelsea. “So tell me about this school.”

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Me, Myself, and I

Stephen Harper

The title is, as with most things I come up with, not original. Where I got it from was Joan Armatrading. She is a wonderful singer/song writer I have been tracking with for multiple years whom no one has ever heard of. All that to say, let’s be clear here; What I have to write is about me, for me, and mostly to reflect well on me. Even when you say bad stuff about yourself people think it self deprecating and transparent and therefore it reflects well on yourself. What they very often fail to realize is that the bad stuff is true. Truer than most.

I’ve been fretting for days. A young woman called here wanting to bring in a handful of kids to see the radio station. This is horrible on several fronts the first of which is how …… underwhelming the facilities are. There’s like a computer that plays stuff and this cable takes it out to the transmitter. Viola’! The second front is my previous sentence. That’s pretty much how I’ll come off to these kids. Yeah, I’m a regular Mr. Rogers. “This is the neighborhood, these people do stuff, there’s some cookies, here I am punching my time card. Come back again.” Kids scare me. Truthfully, people in general scare me. Y’know, they look at you and, and they say stuff and they want you to respond. My name is Stephen and I am an introvert. I was social for three months but slipped into avoidance last week and double-locked all my doors. And let me tell ya it’s no picnic putting bolt locks on your car doors. Which explains the plywood in my car windows. Anyway, most people don’t know that about me. I stand in the back and greet people. I didn’t say I dislike people I just am retarded in social situations. Especially with people I don’t know. Little people exist to make me sweat. So they are to arrive this afternoon and I’m freaked. I am beseeching the gods …… yeah, in desperation I wouldn’t mind Zeus striking out with some lighting and whatnot. Vishnu getting all impersonal all over their tiny tushies. Part of that prayer is please, please, please have Bill stay here with me. Have him with no other appointments. Have Bill exist to meet my needs.

While I am pacing the phone rings and it’s Linda telling me that Tom Myashiro just called from an ambulance. Amy just went down with a seizure. They thought they were past the complications from her brain tumors. The righteous in me rears and I focus. My heart prays, my countenance slips. Within the hour Bill arrives and I swear to all that is holy you will never believe what was first out of my mouth. “Dude, are you going to be here this afternoon?” after my fears dissipate I remember something …… what was that? Oh yeah ………. Oh …. Yeah. One can never imagine how diminished a person can feel when he FOLLOWS that first sentence with, “….. ahhh, yeah, I just remembered ….. “. A notch below a child molester. Hitler and I sharing drinks.

The truth just plain sucks. All this to benefit what? I have been with God as long as I can remember. When I look back I sometimes see regression. When I behave this badly I wonder. I’ve been telling people the past few years that the word, grace, is looming larger that ever in my life. On days such as this it is a freakin’ exploding zeppelin crashing down as I scatter and stumble in between the burning bits. Me, Myself, I. “Oh, the humanity”. Another stolen line.

*note: Amy is home from the hospital now and okay. Continue praying.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Gone Fishing

The sign said, "gone fishing...be back later..."
He knew what that sign meant.
Scanning the horizon for the figure of His child,
the form became visible on the nearby beach.

A tap on the shoulder startled then puzzled the creature...
His eyes communicated His guidance and tender mercies;
revealing His identity at once and propelling her down to her knees.

"Why do you go fishing in this sea, My child?
You don't need to take back the sins you have discarded into my care.
Look at me...stop cherishing those dead fish and come back to where you belong.
Let My word transform your mind.
Let go of those things that tie you to those cherished sins you imagine hiding from Me.
Confess them and leave the beach...I can handle their disposal."

The chains then fell off of the sin-fishing creature...
allowing the Light and the Way to invade the previously barricaded fortress...
She arose and allowed the savior to lead her back to the sign she had posted.

"Now take down the sign. You have to do it. I cannot, nor will I take it down for you.
I have waited for you to remove it from your door. Remove and permit fresh air to
infuse it; for I stand ready to provide the means for the stale air to leave."

She lifted her frame up on tip-toes to reach it...
The nail she had hung was high for her to reach...
...but after a few tries she found she could lift it; and took down the age-weathered sign from its' post.

"Fresh vision and healing are coming your way, child...the sign is now gone, and the wind rushes in. My heart overflows with rejoicing; for You have chosen obedience over familiar territory...
Crave not the dark, child; for the waters are murky...lined with sharp glass and poisons unseen to you...
...I am with you as always and invite you to lean on Me;
just as you are with no further adornment..."

The form of clay looked up through her tears of rejoicing;
responding in her spirit and knowing He heard...
the cries of her heart and the wounds of her spirit inflicted and stored as a tattered dog's quilt...
"Thank You, sweet Jesus, for coming to rescue me." was all she could say...

The rest of her spirit was writing her letter; completing the housekeeping started that day.
He waited a moment, then held out a hand to offer the invitation to continue with Him...


Lynne Hasuly

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Going Through Customs on the Way to Healing

My suitcase was bulging, my arms exhausted.

An official greeted me when my turn came. “Where do you wish to travel today?”

I quickly replied, “Healing, Sir!”

“Reason for your visit?”

“Are you kidding? Look at me. I’m miserable. I need healing!”

Glancing first at my suitcase and then his clipboard, he asked, “You are aware of the layover in Repentance?”

“A layover? How long?”

“I can’t tell you that,” the official answered.

“What do you mean? Surely you can give me some idea. An hour? Two hours?”

“Could be five minutes, could be 5 days or even five months… that’s up to you.”

“Look I really need to get to Healing. Isn’t there a flight straight through?”

He shrugged. “Sorry, the only way to Healing is by way of Repentance. All I can tell you is that the sooner you get to Repentance, the sooner you’ll get to Healing. Look, why don’t you let me finish my questions so you can get moving.”

I nodded in agreement.

“Alright then,” he said, “Is this your suitcase?”

"Yes.”

"You haven’t let anyone borrow it?”

“No.”

He checked off something on his clipboard. “What about the contents?”

“What do you mean?”

“The stuff in the suitcase. Is it yours?”

“Yes,” I began, “well, no… I mean some of it …”

“Why don’t we just take a look,” he said, hauling the bag up onto a counter. In a moment my suitcase laid open, the contents exposed.

Embarrassed, I looked down.

The official reached in and held up the first thing he saw. “You have some bitterness here. Yours?”

“I’m only bitter because of what people have done to me. It isn’t my fault,” I explained.

He looked at me skeptically and pulled something else out of the bag. “What about this self pity?”

"If I feel badly for myself, it’s because I’ve been wronged!”

Sighing, the official glanced over the other items in my bag. “O.K., you have a lot of things in here lady. The deal is that you are not allowed to go through here with anything that doesn’t belong to you. I’ll level with you. I think these things DO belong to you, but if you don’t want to admit it, you won’t be heading to Repentance today.

“Wait!” I said, digging up some things from the bottom, “these are mine!”

The official grimaced. “A promise to teach Sunday school? Some good intentions? You didn’t need to pack these. What’s that in the pocket?”

“Nothing,” I lied.

Extracting something, he said, “You can’t bring this!”

Sheepishly, I mumbled, “It’s only a souvenir.”

“The trip you went on to get that souvenir is the reason you need healing! Maybe you should sit down and decide if you’re ready to come back.”

I trudged away, irritated. Nearby, I noticed a swiftly moving line. Lugging my suitcase, I went to check it out. Closer, I could see that everyone in this line looked sad and wore torn clothing. None of them carried bags. At the front, a man stood talking to the official. His head hung down, words aimed at the floor. I strained to hear. "I don’t deserve to go back,” he was saying. “I really screwed up. Maybe I could just volunteer here, pick up the garbage or something, and sleep on a bench…” “No,” the official interrupted, “He’s waiting for you. Through those doors is the private jet. Go on now. You’ll be heading straight to Healing.”

Suddenly angry, I yelled, “Hey! Why doesn’t he have to do the layover in Repentance? That’s not fair!”

The official came to me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Janet, you could be in this line. These people came repentant. They brought nothing but a desire to leave their sins and be servants of the Lord. They know they have nothing to offer. They’ll be flying first class and the Lord Himself will be ministering to them immediately. Is there anything in that suitcase of yours that compares to that?”

My eyes looked to the door, behind it the jet and my Lord- so close. I longed to be with Him. Suddenly it became clear that it was the things in that suitcase that were causing the delay. My excuses, the blame, and the sins I wanted to hold onto- they were mine.“Lord, have mercy on me,” I said softly. At once, my bag was gone and my Lord came running through the door to greet me.

He took my hand in one of His. With His other He lifted my chin, and then He looked in my eyes. "Shall we go on to healing?"

Friday, July 13, 2007

Response to Steve's and Judy's Blog

Yes, Steve, we can all spend a lot of time trying to get more stuff. But some how we always end up with less. There are no winners in this game. And I'm sure you are right, if the son of the father who made my hand tool in the bush of the far east were to come to America, we could find him at starbucks looking for that $5 coffee. But is not that the way that man has gone since the beginning? To always want more? But in the end we are limited by our resourses, our culture, what is happening in the world of our neighborhood, and how the world effects that, and THE REAL BOTTOM LINE. What belief system to you hold on to and alow your self to be guided by. AND with all that said there are the times when we are just clueless as to what God is doing in our lives, and the pain and angish we are feeling.
I am thankful that if we are willing , the holy spirit will guide us and all our needs will be met. Often times not as we would have thought or even desired. But always exactly what was required. Nothing more nothing less.
Pray for the simple life.
When we ask for help HE is there.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Consuming Contented Consumerism by Judy Biltcliffe

I was just going to write in the comment column regarding Steve's post "Countdown to Oblivion" but decided to try my hand at the real deal. Anything I might have to say on the afforementioned subject would be too long and too revealing that I may need to get a life. This way I can actually look like I'm doing something constructive and meaningful that will bring about some sort of solution regarding said post. Just to let you know in advance, I don't have one. A solution, that is. So you may want to turn back now.
After ten minutes of sitting in front of that sentence I am reminded of why I stopped writing in the first place, too much work. Effort and excertion, that which ultimately drove us to New Times Roman. Always looking for the better, easier way. And what's wrong with that? It's better and it's easier. What kind of idiot doesn't want better and easier? Me, that's who. I mean ,I just got my first cell phone. In the end it was getting too difficult to find a pay phone and the last communication I made on one was in a downpour, thus finally driving me into the waiting arms of modern design. And this whole cyber thing, don't get me going on that. It was just time to come down off the telephone pole. And you really can't get a hold of anybody anymore anyway unless they check their E-mail.
Yes Steve, there is a Santa Clause, and he's got way too much stuff in his bag. It's piled high and arranged in a most attractive and enticing way. And those horns he's sporting under that fuzzy hat have a way of making most of us believe that we actually need what's being offered. Somewhere along the way the lines got blurred as to what we want and what we actually need. And if you live with what you want long enough you may start believing you need it. But the things mentioned in Countdown, the siding, the car repairs, those are, unfortunately, due to the way things are, necessities. Ya gotta take care of your stuff. The Bible says so. It's in proverbs somewhere. Great, now I have to make an effort and excert myself to find it in my concordance and I know the word stuff isn't in there....You'll never believe this, the word stuff actually resides in this concordance. Belongings, possessions, goods, supplies, things. It says "see baggage". (I think it should say chains). Here it is folks. Proverbs 12:27 says the diligent man prizes his possessions. Why? I think it's because God has given us these things to somehow advance the Kingdom.
I have no more to offer on that, I'm not God. But I will offer this. Consumerism and consumerist societies are better than the alternative which basically comes down to a choice of communism, fascism, Sharia law or Africa. Slavenka Drakulic writes in How We Survived Communist Rule and Even Laughed, "without a choice of cosmetics and clothes, with bad food and hard work and no spare time, it wasn't hard to create the special kind of uniformity that comes out of equal distribution of poverty and the neglect of people's real needs. There was no chance for individualism".
Very few people who manage to escape these kinds of countries ever opt to go back. At least not if they want to eat. But they see the absurdity of the disparity of it all. Drakula writes, "but even to look at the richness of a consumer society becomes difficult, there's the feeling that it's just absurd to look at so many things and so many kinds of one thing. It has to stop somewhere, this plentitude doesn't make any sense. Coming from a world of shortages, one's idea of plenty is mainly fruit, meat, vegatables, shampoo, soap, toilet paper. First you discover an immense greed, a wish to buy everything-then you discover powerlessness-and the very essence of it, poverty."
The apostle Paul wrote, (can I piggyback or can I piggyback?) "I have learned to be content in any and every situation". And it's not that I am. I mean, who would think you have to learn to be content with no lack of material wealth? I wrestle with the discontent that comes from fighting those chains that keep me from serving Jesus in the way I think I would serve Him if they didn't keep dragging me back. I've learned the hard way that contentedness is begotten of gratefulness. Not that I'm always grateful, either. You know how it is, you don't appreciate what you've got until you don't have it anymore. So I'll just have to live with my stuff, chains and all. Not the worst option in the world, especially when I consider that some of the links in the chain are of my own making. And that basically means that I have some power of of my own to break free. Not to mention the power He gives.
I'll finish with lyrics to a song Sarah Kelly sings:

Contentment is the art
Yes contentment is the answer
So be still my heart
As you learn to love

The Garden in Summer

It's July now.Most of the spring was spent moving into summer, the celebrations of may, and time spent cutting and fighting the yard and what I consider the monster," cutting the lawn".
It's good for the heart and good for the mind and the cloud that always collects inside over the winter. But I'm always glad when the heat hits and the grass slows down. And I can slow down.

But finally it has come time to look more closely at the flower beds and the newly arrived transplants. It has always been a wonder to me that no matter how many flowers I give away there are alway more to grace my landscape.
Mine is not a perfect landscape. My yard is not cut with nail trimmers. The older I get the more the yard seems to change. Some of the change is change I have done with my simple tools. Other change has been brouht about by vines that out grow my ability to cut them down. Or tree limbs and trees that have fallen only to become back drops to ferns and iris. Mine is a yard that depends on natures decay. Brush piles first become homes to birds and bunnies and other creatures that I will never see. As the brush pile falls in on it's self and nature does it's work, these once large piles become food for flowers. A system that is slow but God is patient with me, why should I not take time to listen to him, and watch him do his work. A part of creation.

More on this subject to follow.

Robert

Death of a Tent

I don’t know how many more nights this tent will hold up. Lying here in the dark, I see stars peeking through the rips in the canvas, too tattered now to repair like I have in the past. I’ve gotten my money’s worth out of this old thing; have camped in it more days than I can count. Pleasurable days and starlit nights of pure camping fun, and miserable times I’ve spent caught in storms just praying the lightening wouldn’t choose my tent pole as a target.

I’ve lugged this tent up mountains and down into valleys. Have slogged along muddy paths in the rain and trembled beneath the weight of it on hot, dry days in the desert. No matter how difficult the day, it’s always been a shelter at night, a place to lie down and sleep.

Solitude is nice—the walking and camping alone—but mostly I’ve camped with others. Family and friends. I’ve found camping with strangers to be one of the most interesting experiences. After all, there’s something about gathering around a campfire, everyone staring into the same orange glow and feeling it’s warmth that makes people not strangers anymore. Once you’ve shared a meal roasted over that flame you’re more like family.

The past few nights have been calm, so I’ve done alright. But tonight, I hear a rumble. The air seems pregnant with storm. I scrunch over to the less holey side and hope for the best. No one has tents like this one anymore. This is the real deal—the kind old boy scouts remember fondly. The kind that leaks like crazy if you touch the sides when they’re wet.

The other campers—owners of shiny campers and pop-ups—looked at my tent with pity today. One gentleman came over with a roll of duct tape. A woman offered me her sewing kit. I could see in their eyes though, that they knew as I well as I that this tent is done for. It’s just too old (not I-could-get-a-lot-of-money-for-it-on-ebay old, but time-to-burn-it-in-the-campfire-along-with-the-logs-and-paper-plates old.)

It’s a good tent, though, and the only one I have. The mosquitoes that’ve been darting freely in and out have suddenly disappeared. The campground is eerily quiet. It’s hot, yet I shiver in my sleeping bag.

CRACK! The lightning’s flash and the resounding boom are simultaneous and when I open my eyes, I can’t believe I’m still alive. The rain comes on all at once, not warming up with a drizzle and working its way up, but pouring heavily like the water I pour from a bucket on the smoldering coals before bed. Water streams in through the holes, just like it must have into the Titanic as it sank. The wind shakes the tent, lifting it clear off the ground on one side. Fastened down by only a few tent pegs, the few I haven’t lost or broken, it can’t hold its ground. I spread myself into an X to try and weigh it down, but the wind is too strong. The sound of ripping fabric cuts through the storm as the biggest hole expands, leaving a gaping door through which the storm gladly enters.

I feel as if I’m caught up in a tornado. The poles flail about. My shelter is no longer a refuge. Leaving my sleeping bag, compass and clothes, I struggle through the sagging and shuddering tent, blinded by the darkness. Groping I find the hole on the tent’s side.And then I am out. Naked and utterly exposed to the storm.

Homeless.

I see a glow, hear the crackle of burning wood, and see rising smoke. In the rain. Forgetting my tent and my nudity, I move towards this oddity until I can see clearly. A man sitting by the fire, motions me closer.Tears, as well as rain, streak my face. “My tent is gone.”

He reaches out and pulls me closer. It isn’t raining here. All around, but not here. There is a cloth in His hand and He uses it to wipe my face clean of water and tears. I look down and notice that I am not sweaty or wet or naked. I’m wearing a white robe.

“I made your tent,” He says. “It wasn’t meant to last forever. Just until now.”

I nod, not missing my tent at all, just happy to be here with this man.

“I’ve made you a new place,” He says. “Something... more permanent. Would you like to see?”

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Countdown to Oblivion

Stephen Harper

First, let me comment on the comments to Nothing ……. Seriously, guys, do you realize that by commenting it actually gives nothing …… weight. And I did want to respond to Mama Tried’s first comment. So, the renowned existentialist, Jughead, says to Archie, he says “hey, Veronica’s real cute” and Archie responds “Yeah, sure. My car looks neat, huh?” ………………… my car looks neat, huh? Man, does it get any more profound than that?

Times New Roman. You thought I was joking. I get this newsletter from a law firm in DC that deals with matters FCC. I don’t understand a word of it but sitting there with my magnifiers cradled on the precipice of my nose looking intently at its pages gives me an air of …. knowledge. This, for anyone that walks by. I usually strike the pose when I hear footsteps coming my way. Few realize that I’m holding it upside down and while browsing I’m thinking, “hey, I wonder if the guy what staples this thing together gets free legal advice. And if it’s another lawyer doing this does he suck as a lawyer that much he has to be relegated to stapling pages after law school?” Then I glance over at my own dismantled stapler and I am awash in shame and fear. But, I digress. One of the sections in said newsletter is titled, “Countdown to Oblivion”. Not original I know but then lawyers rarely are. However, it sure reflects the culture of a Times New Roman. We’ve all heard the noise that our culture is looking like the Roman Empire with the violence and the sex and the togas. Yeah, you heard right, togas. Did you know that if a man was caught wearing pants in ancient Rome he was beaten and his property taken away? I’m sure I read that somewhere. My question would be, what if he were caught wearing culottes? Part pant, part dress. Like to see that staple fumbling lawyer get his mind around THAT conundrum in front of Caesar. Depending on the Caesar of course. I mean Caligula might have thought it foreplay. But, I digress. I don’t see the culture reflecting Rome. I see me reflecting Rome. The curse of a blessed country (or a world power) is the stuff. Our priorities are altered exponentially by what we can possess. And our pain is diminished to what toys we can’t have. I need new carpets. Ours are old and worn and our bank account is vapor. I need a bigger bank account. And, geeeeese, it gripes me that I have to get one of my two cars fixed. Now, I’m not American bashing. You take a street urchin from Calcutta and transplant him to the US of A and within a month he’ll be crying that his half-caff double mocha from Starbucks doesn’t have enough ice and he will be upgrading to cable internet so he can download porn faster. No one is pure. No one gets out alive. My challenge isn’t to cram Jesus into my stuff like some errant puzzle piece. Jesus is always the piece that doesn’t fit. Frankly, that was my main attraction to Jesus. How did I get distracted from that? Even to have a little in this culture means having a lot. Having Jesus means having it all. What in the world makes me think that “filled to overflowing” has anything to do with new siding? I am the Times New Roman. It feels every bit as vapid as my bank account. The challenge isn’t the realization, it’s the crawling back. It’s tough to crawl with all that crap attached to you like the chain pulled by the ghost of Jacob Marley. But then He came to set the captives free. My mistake was thinking that this was a one-time deal. The more we have the more locks He has to pick. The b**ch of it is, He does it with a smile.

Monday, July 9, 2007

To Wander

It has come to my attention that I have not posted for a short while. WOW.
Well as Webster would define the word,,,,,,,
to stray
to move about aimlessly
or the one I like the best
to become delirious.
Trust me as far as I know none of the above apply. I have simply been doing all that is required of me.
I understand that in this day and age that is doing pretty OK.
I have started a blog about summer and my flower garden and worms. But it is not ready to post.
The heat is on and work is calling. And we have a house full.

My God bless you all.
Robert.

Tuesday, July 3, 2007

Serving Where Nobody Knows Your Name

I inhaled deeply and stepped into the church foyer. I moved along with the strangers also making their way toward the sanctuary door, comfortable beneath my cloak of anonymity. Men and women I did not know threw me nods, smiles, and “good mornings.” They didn’t know my name, nor could they see the shame I bore, yet I clutched my Bible tight against my chest as if to hide a scarlet letter.

A short and perpetually smiling woman just outside the door handed me a bulletin and since this was my second month attending the church, I was no longer surprised when she tackled me with a bear hug. In fact the embrace was like balm to my wounded spirit. Non-judgmental arms wrapped around a repentant soul. Thank You, Lord, for leading me here.

It was strange being unknown. In my old place of worship I had the notoriety of Norm on Cheers; yes, everybody knew my name. One couldn’t read through the bulletin without seeing it many times: For more information, contact Janet Rubin, See Janet Rubin regarding library donations, Chairperson: Janet Rubin… That was me—religious super-woman, loved an admired by all.

Until I fell.

So here I was, stripped of my choir robe, my titles, and my pride. Only wanting healing, understanding I was no longer good enough to serve. Still bleeding from my self-inflicted wounds as well as the ones left by people I’d called friends. The music, already playing, swept over me as I entered. A young man sang into the microphone—words that seemed written for me: All who are thirsty, all who are weak, come to the fountain, dip your heart in the stream of life…

And I found myself in front of the only person whose name I knew. Steve. Bare feet, long hair, and dangling earring. He looked more like a club bouncer than an associate pastor, but he’d been the first person I met when searching out a new flock to hang with, and his friendly manner had quenched most of the fear that came with venturing into a new flock. It had been Steve who’d answered the phone when I called, Steve who’d sent me pamphlets and a sermon tape in the mail, Steve who greeted with the warmest of smiles and hugs each week.

And today he did more than that. He bent his hulking frame over so his voice could be heard over the music. “Janet, can you do me a favor and help pass out communion today?”

I froze in my tracks. Pass out communion? That was a job for men, not women. Men in suits with titles like deacon or elder. Who was I to pass out the elements? Especially me. I probably shouldn’t even be participating.

I rose up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “I would like to. I really would...”

Apparently, thinking I was finished, he slapped me on the shoulder. “Cool. Thanks.”

I shook my head. “No, I mean you guys don’t really know me, Steve. I’ve really screwed up. Sinned big time…”

He looked at me with what seemed amusement. “We all have, sister. That’s what Jesus died for.”

I hesitated. “You’re sure it’s okay? You don’t know what I did.”
He nodded. “It’s all about grace.”

The sincerity in his expression convinced me he really had no qualms about delegating the sacred task to me. Something in my spirit stirred, excited at the idea that I was not truly useless in the kingdom.

Two hours later I made my way down the aisle, passing a plate of broken crackers to men, women and children—strangers yet family. Me serving the Lord. And it felt okay. It felt better than okay. There was no glory for me. I was still unknown. And all at once I understood that serving was a gift.

When I was done with passing out the little cups of grape juice, I took some for myself. And when the pastor gave the go ahead, I ate my cracker, drank my juice, understanding for the first time what the point of it was—He bled, He died because I needed saving. Chiefly because I wasn’t good enough or clean enough.



And by His stripes my healing began.

Monday, July 2, 2007

The Image

The square blade disappears under the cover of flesh,
hiding its' presence for only a moment
as the metal invades a hand created for service to God...

Liquid of life drips then flows from
the cover of flesh
and stains the ground with powerless sacrifice...

the wind responds
and ushers in fresh vision
to soothe the feet of clay;
the image of the retracted hand tipped to sideways
...dislodging the perverted use of an everyday object...

the blood covers the wound in an instant,
and restores the flesh to created masterpiece...

...and the blood travels to the rest of the sinews and
bone of the one travailing in an earthsuit
and longing for heaven's gate to meet her where she is...

The hand lifts her gaze to meet the eyes from Galilee...

The hand of clay meets the divine palm,
and the sand of the beach feels like a cushion
as the two have a conversation
on a redemptive walk...

Sunday, July 1, 2007

Nothing from Stephen Harper

I just opened up Microsoft Word to write nothing. Seriously, nothing. Janet Rubin threatened to do something to me if I didn’t submit something soon. I can’t remember what that something is but it must have tethered itself to the “fear stupid” portion of my brain. The “fear stupid” portion being directly underneath the “What’s That?” lobe. So, I sat there catching up on all my lapsed blog readings because …. well, I forget to read them on a regular basis. Some people are known for their humility, their character even their wickedness. I’m known for forgetting stuff. “oh, that’s steve. He mostly shakes hands, calls you by the wrong name and always asks what the date is”. But I digress. I forgot, I am also known for digressing. Anyway, read I did to be inspired. Who’s kidding who, read I did to steal. I needed an idea so I was going to piggyback on the wonderful posts from Art for the Heart. Turns out I can’t even crawl up on the back of those pigs. Not that any of those posts could be mistaken for a pig unless of course it was about a pig. Oh. Yeah, I didn’t catch ALL the way up on my readings. So, if you indeed wrote a devotional about us sending our personal demons into the metaphorical pigs of our lives to run screaming to a metaphorical or even a metaphysical sea or had a beautiful photo of the sun setting behind a ….. pig …. then I apologize for missing it. Well, maybe not for missing that particular visual epic because, y’know, it’s a pig. Big fan of bacon but aside from Arnold on Green Acres one can’t really point to a pig at any time in history as a reference of beauty, an inspiration for war or something that Michelangelo would have chipped in marble to be auctioned off for sick millions of dollars at Sotheby’s. And we all join in as I say “but I digress”. What am I getting back to? You guessed it kids, nothing. And that is my point. At 51 (or there abouts. My wife will correct me) I have traveled from knowing exactly where I am going to a grinding painful halt of nothing. I do my job. I even like my job. But it’s sort of like the guy that sets up the equipment for the bands. It’s the bands that give juice to the performance. The band that inspires the crowd. Sometimes you want to be the one that inspires. So, I do the lifting and I go home but I notice that I just sit. Nothing. I read, watch the tube and …. nothing. I could create a sitcom about nothing but Seinfeld already had it’s run. No piggy to back there. So, I opened Microsoft Word and typed in the default font, Times New Roman. And I’m thinking of writing about that. I am a Times New Roman. Pretty tasty subject, no? No. Well even if it is it’s going to have to wait to the next threat because this ain’t nothing. And doing something is exhausting. Peace.