One of the great values of living with dogs is they reflect to us things about ourselves that we often do not see. Perhaps it is because they are pack animals, creatures tuned into a social context. They make us laugh; they can comfort us when no words can reach us; they help us understand ourselves. But they also lick their butts.
This early morning I was painfully aware of how distant I've grown from God, mainly from my own distractions and simply not spending time cultivating our Relationship. At this point in my journey I am aware what lack of discipline produces in my spiritual life, whether the discipline to read or pray, or especially the discipline Not to say it, look at it or dwell on it. It is this latter discipline, the intention to NOT, that anchors me from drifting away from my Lord.
Dogs have an issue that disgusts me, and though I'd like to think that we can't relate, I now see we share this struggle with discipline: to NOT roll in it. When I was much younger and would let the dogs out, they would occasionally disappear, leaving me distressed and worried. Upon seeing them return my immediate response was to run and embrace my furred friend, only to encounter the most horrid stench. What manner of prankster would do this to my dog? Which neighbor punk poured it all over my little mutt poodle?
And then one day while walking the dog, I saw the rite before my eyes... my dog ran over to a rotting corpse and did this wierd shoulder dive/roll thing, coating himself from neck to ribs in grossness. One mystery solved; another created: why? I soon read how wild dogs rub in a fresh kill or carcass to bring back its scent to the pack. Dogs still carry that instinctual behavior somewhere deep in their being. Unfortunately for all involved, my pack did not eat rotting road-kill.
And this morning I realized that I've been rolling in it again, right back to old, deep patterns. And I really need a bath.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Book Review: Donald Miller's "Searching for God (knows what)"
Rarely do I enjoy a book or written material to the point of repeatedly laughing out loud, but I did with this text, often annoying the students I was accompanying on a school trip.
Perhaps it is Miller's energetic run-on sentances, dripping with the self-reflective voice akin to a Woody Allen flick; or perhaps it the direct, blunt, in-your-face, I-calls-it-da-ways-I-sees-it attitude that drives his sarcasm and word play. I truly enjoy this text.
As an example of the genre of literature that tickles my soul, here Miller describes his first vague impression of the Christian scriptures, reflecting from a recently attended writer's workshop.
Miller writes:
"You would think some of the writers of the Bible would have gone to a Christian writers seminar to learn the magical formulas about how to dangle a carrot in front of a rabbit, but they didn't. Instead, the writers of the Bible tell a lot of stories and account for a lot of history and write down a lot of poems and recite a great deal of boring numbers and then conclude with various creepy hallucinations that, in some mysterious way, explain the future, in which, apparently, we all slip into Dungeons and Dragons outfits and fight the giant frog people. I forget how it goes exactly, and I mean no disrespect. But because it is so scatterbrained, and has virtually no charts and graphs, I am actually quite surprised the Bible sells." (p.49, Searching for God [knows what])
Perhaps it is Miller's energetic run-on sentances, dripping with the self-reflective voice akin to a Woody Allen flick; or perhaps it the direct, blunt, in-your-face, I-calls-it-da-ways-I-sees-it attitude that drives his sarcasm and word play. I truly enjoy this text.
As an example of the genre of literature that tickles my soul, here Miller describes his first vague impression of the Christian scriptures, reflecting from a recently attended writer's workshop.
Miller writes:
"You would think some of the writers of the Bible would have gone to a Christian writers seminar to learn the magical formulas about how to dangle a carrot in front of a rabbit, but they didn't. Instead, the writers of the Bible tell a lot of stories and account for a lot of history and write down a lot of poems and recite a great deal of boring numbers and then conclude with various creepy hallucinations that, in some mysterious way, explain the future, in which, apparently, we all slip into Dungeons and Dragons outfits and fight the giant frog people. I forget how it goes exactly, and I mean no disrespect. But because it is so scatterbrained, and has virtually no charts and graphs, I am actually quite surprised the Bible sells." (p.49, Searching for God [knows what])
Thursday, November 08, 2007
"I drove Daddy's car!"
I love the magical thinking of children.
Their ability to simplify and sythesize along the path of least resistance.
It's like nephew who proudly proclaims, "I drove Daddy's car," when I know this meter-long creature could not reach the peddles, much less see over the dash without a booster seat. Of course what they meant was, "I sat in Daddy's lap while he was driving, and I even touched the steering wheel when he wasn't looking." It just seems so much easier to proclaim the former; the latter only clogs up one's delivery.
I wonder how much we are just like these fantastic children, thinking we are running our own lives, making the big plans, accomplishing all those goals?
I wonder if perhaps we're just sitting in Daddy's lap, oblivious to the bigger picture but participating in the Adventure as best we can comprehend?
God, forgive our childish arrogance.
Their ability to simplify and sythesize along the path of least resistance.
It's like nephew who proudly proclaims, "I drove Daddy's car," when I know this meter-long creature could not reach the peddles, much less see over the dash without a booster seat. Of course what they meant was, "I sat in Daddy's lap while he was driving, and I even touched the steering wheel when he wasn't looking." It just seems so much easier to proclaim the former; the latter only clogs up one's delivery.
I wonder how much we are just like these fantastic children, thinking we are running our own lives, making the big plans, accomplishing all those goals?
I wonder if perhaps we're just sitting in Daddy's lap, oblivious to the bigger picture but participating in the Adventure as best we can comprehend?
God, forgive our childish arrogance.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Heresy
I believe in God the Father, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord. I believe in the Holy Spirit. But I don't think the theological construct of the Holy Trinity is directly attributed to in scripture; it's more a theo-philosophical contraction probably created to arm the illiterate from the serious threat of gnosticism or other heretical beliefs that Jesus was either not God's son, or was not really human?-- a mystical vapour or something?
My biggest struggle with swallowing the idea of the Trinity, as postulated by systematic theologians in my conservative circles, is I keep choking on what the Bible reads. I have been trained to say that God is 3 in 1, like a shamrock, or the Presbyterian fish-overlapping-ring thingy... kinda like a sanctified Venn Diagram. That Jesus is equal to the Father who is equal to the Spirit who is equal to Jesus, which is fine for a mantra, but I'm not seeing that directly stated in scripture. That point was cinched when I was asked to memorize a "proof text" in theology class as evidence of it, yet the scripture only mentions the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit; the synthesis is parabiblical.
To complicate things, I believe that God is Spirit, and that God is Holy... you could say that God is Holy Spirit. And I believe that this God is like a Father to us even today, opening wide His arms of love to adopt those who would repent (not wanting anyone to perish); a father TO whom Jesus, His only true son, submitted and prayed, "Not my will be done but Yours."
I believe that Jesus was born of the virgin Mary, that he grew in stature and wisdom, and that he not only taught the way (prophet/teacher), but he provided the way (priest/sacrificial Lamb). Jesus was the man through whom the Holy Spirit entered our tactile, prehensile world. God walked among us in Jesus' footsteps, sinless, yet was differentiated enough from the Father that prayer with the Father was an earnest part of his daily life... even Jesus had to set aside time to be with God the Father... so how does that fit in boxed-in theology cubes?
Are there only 3 facets to reflect God to us? Why not 4 or 5... Creator, Ruler, etc...
So if you ask me, do I believe in the Trinity, let me simply reply, "Probably; what are YOU talking about?"
My biggest struggle with swallowing the idea of the Trinity, as postulated by systematic theologians in my conservative circles, is I keep choking on what the Bible reads. I have been trained to say that God is 3 in 1, like a shamrock, or the Presbyterian fish-overlapping-ring thingy... kinda like a sanctified Venn Diagram. That Jesus is equal to the Father who is equal to the Spirit who is equal to Jesus, which is fine for a mantra, but I'm not seeing that directly stated in scripture. That point was cinched when I was asked to memorize a "proof text" in theology class as evidence of it, yet the scripture only mentions the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit; the synthesis is parabiblical.
To complicate things, I believe that God is Spirit, and that God is Holy... you could say that God is Holy Spirit. And I believe that this God is like a Father to us even today, opening wide His arms of love to adopt those who would repent (not wanting anyone to perish); a father TO whom Jesus, His only true son, submitted and prayed, "Not my will be done but Yours."
I believe that Jesus was born of the virgin Mary, that he grew in stature and wisdom, and that he not only taught the way (prophet/teacher), but he provided the way (priest/sacrificial Lamb). Jesus was the man through whom the Holy Spirit entered our tactile, prehensile world. God walked among us in Jesus' footsteps, sinless, yet was differentiated enough from the Father that prayer with the Father was an earnest part of his daily life... even Jesus had to set aside time to be with God the Father... so how does that fit in boxed-in theology cubes?
Are there only 3 facets to reflect God to us? Why not 4 or 5... Creator, Ruler, etc...
So if you ask me, do I believe in the Trinity, let me simply reply, "Probably; what are YOU talking about?"
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Halo3 and the Secret Weapon
About every decade I have a personal scavenger hunt; I try to find where I left my old copy of C. S. Lewis' book, The Screwtape Letters. The first time I read it was shortly after buying it during a high school discipleship group (late 70's); it was a little spooky, but mainly weird and less than relevant.
In college I read it and it was too relevant, and not weird enough, which was spooky. As a youth pastor fresh out of seminary, Lewis' work was entertaining but theologically tenuous... I was scary!
As a middle-aged, motorscooter-riding science teacher in a laptop-required high school, married to a technophilic graphic Artist, I'm looking again for my copy... I think I'm almost mature enough to appreciate it now! Somewhere buried in a box of books, abruptly translocated with the best intentions of painting the book shelves, is my old copy of the Letters. I don't remember too many of the specifics of the dialog between the demons, Uncle Screwtape and his apprentice, Wormwood, but I do remember one particular section of Lewis' fiction-- where Wormwood is told of the greatest weapon useful in defeating God's Kingdom. Distraction.
Yesterday I escorted the Artist to several computer stores where she was looking for various gizmos to upgrade her computer and integrate her new Mac. I'm already attention-deficit, but you put me in a store of plasma screens showing "Happy Feet" or "Planet Earth", I'm doomed to a standing coma, waiting for my cellphone (set to 'stun') to jumpstart my reentry into life as I left it a few minutes (hours) ago, dialed in by the Artist, who has now cleared the register and headed toward the door.
We are so absorbed by our technologies in today's world that we become oblivious to the world around us. We roll up our tinted windows of our SUVs, plug in the IPod, crank the AC and pick up the cell phone... and that's just to back down the driveway toward some tall guy on a scooter. (smile). Distracted.
It's almost entertaining to see students feverishly "taking notes" during lecture, or perhaps entering "data" into an ExCel spreadsheet, except when I call on them, they respond as if they just got the vibrating/loud cellphone call in the plasma screen section of CompUSA... blankly blinking at me as if I just queried them in Swahili. Surely they weren't gaming or checking MySpace? Distracted.
Now for those who are adequately ruffled because of where this is going, especially in light of the title, be at ease... I will not curse your gods by name--if I did, you might show me my own hypocrisy. Instead I will invite you to join me in considering what little time we have left in a day. I will not accuse, but simply confess... I traded my quiet time with God tonight for a football game.
Good night. Jim Kelley
(originally written Sept.30, 2007)
In college I read it and it was too relevant, and not weird enough, which was spooky. As a youth pastor fresh out of seminary, Lewis' work was entertaining but theologically tenuous... I was scary!
As a middle-aged, motorscooter-riding science teacher in a laptop-required high school, married to a technophilic graphic Artist, I'm looking again for my copy... I think I'm almost mature enough to appreciate it now! Somewhere buried in a box of books, abruptly translocated with the best intentions of painting the book shelves, is my old copy of the Letters. I don't remember too many of the specifics of the dialog between the demons, Uncle Screwtape and his apprentice, Wormwood, but I do remember one particular section of Lewis' fiction-- where Wormwood is told of the greatest weapon useful in defeating God's Kingdom. Distraction.
Yesterday I escorted the Artist to several computer stores where she was looking for various gizmos to upgrade her computer and integrate her new Mac. I'm already attention-deficit, but you put me in a store of plasma screens showing "Happy Feet" or "Planet Earth", I'm doomed to a standing coma, waiting for my cellphone (set to 'stun') to jumpstart my reentry into life as I left it a few minutes (hours) ago, dialed in by the Artist, who has now cleared the register and headed toward the door.
We are so absorbed by our technologies in today's world that we become oblivious to the world around us. We roll up our tinted windows of our SUVs, plug in the IPod, crank the AC and pick up the cell phone... and that's just to back down the driveway toward some tall guy on a scooter. (smile). Distracted.
It's almost entertaining to see students feverishly "taking notes" during lecture, or perhaps entering "data" into an ExCel spreadsheet, except when I call on them, they respond as if they just got the vibrating/loud cellphone call in the plasma screen section of CompUSA... blankly blinking at me as if I just queried them in Swahili. Surely they weren't gaming or checking MySpace? Distracted.
Now for those who are adequately ruffled because of where this is going, especially in light of the title, be at ease... I will not curse your gods by name--if I did, you might show me my own hypocrisy. Instead I will invite you to join me in considering what little time we have left in a day. I will not accuse, but simply confess... I traded my quiet time with God tonight for a football game.
Good night. Jim Kelley
(originally written Sept.30, 2007)
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Cheesy Christian Music?
At last night's Tribal Gathering, as the menfolk tended the burning cowflesh with open flame, T-Man challenges the concept of whether there really is such a thing as "Cheesy" Christian music. His point was directed at the notion that, if a person, wandering the Prodigal's Path, hears some old tune on KSBJ and it quickens his heart toward fellowship with the Father, and if all forms of music have that appeal to someone out there, then is it right to call that music "cheesy"?
I responded: "Is Barry Manilow's music 'cheesy'?"
Case closed.
His point being that all Christian music has value.
My point being, yes, even cheesy Christian music.
So the point now being, what is "cheesy", if it is not some subjective construct-- and the counterpoint being exactly that... it IS a subjective matter.
So now, reader, we enter dialog.
What is "cheesy" Christian music to you? What are some examples?
For me (and perhaps reflective of my current ambient hue) it comes to a clone-perpetuating sugar-and-spice-and-all-things-nice ideology that tries to bring smiles to everyone, and if you aren't happy, well "smile anyway %For me (and perhaps reflective of my current ambient hue) it comes to a clone-perpetuating sugar-and-spice-and-all-things-nice ideology that tries to bring smiles to everyone, and if you aren't happy, well "smile anyway %$&*, 'cause people are amp;*, 'cause people are lookin'!"
Which reminds me of my Mentor group meeting this week. I meet on occasion with a dozen young men associated with a Christian organization, and this week we were discussing 'worship'. In the awesome dialog we shared, I discovered that only 2 students are actually participating in worshipping communities, while at least half were actually HOSTILE to how they have experienced their home churches... phony, pretentious entities who are more interested in outward conformity than authentic community. Wow! these guys were candid.
They went on about how most of the Christians are hypocrites.
"No," I corrected, "We ALL are."
So what's the solution? Are we supposed to walk around with angry, bitter hearts, discouraging each other? Of course not-- Paul admonishes us to encourage each other (Eph.4).
But it also calls us to be truthful, not phony, as the Golden Boy Preacher used to call it, "Shellacking a layer of 'jesus' over it and pretending everything's OK,"...even though something smells really bad.
And my challenge to you: Is that smell the cheese in "cheesy"?
JK (no, seriously)
I responded: "Is Barry Manilow's music 'cheesy'?"
Case closed.
His point being that all Christian music has value.
My point being, yes, even cheesy Christian music.
So the point now being, what is "cheesy", if it is not some subjective construct-- and the counterpoint being exactly that... it IS a subjective matter.
So now, reader, we enter dialog.
What is "cheesy" Christian music to you? What are some examples?
For me (and perhaps reflective of my current ambient hue) it comes to a clone-perpetuating sugar-and-spice-and-all-things-nice ideology that tries to bring smiles to everyone, and if you aren't happy, well "smile anyway %For me (and perhaps reflective of my current ambient hue) it comes to a clone-perpetuating sugar-and-spice-and-all-things-nice ideology that tries to bring smiles to everyone, and if you aren't happy, well "smile anyway %$&*, 'cause people are amp;*, 'cause people are lookin'!"
Which reminds me of my Mentor group meeting this week. I meet on occasion with a dozen young men associated with a Christian organization, and this week we were discussing 'worship'. In the awesome dialog we shared, I discovered that only 2 students are actually participating in worshipping communities, while at least half were actually HOSTILE to how they have experienced their home churches... phony, pretentious entities who are more interested in outward conformity than authentic community. Wow! these guys were candid.
They went on about how most of the Christians are hypocrites.
"No," I corrected, "We ALL are."
So what's the solution? Are we supposed to walk around with angry, bitter hearts, discouraging each other? Of course not-- Paul admonishes us to encourage each other (Eph.4).
But it also calls us to be truthful, not phony, as the Golden Boy Preacher used to call it, "Shellacking a layer of 'jesus' over it and pretending everything's OK,"...even though something smells really bad.
And my challenge to you: Is that smell the cheese in "cheesy"?
JK (no, seriously)
Saturday, September 08, 2007
God Cries?
Today was a hard day. 2 students I care about buried their daddy today after the funeral service this afternoon.
I knew the funeral was coming; even asked the Artist over bfast at Frenchy's what it would be like to get that phone call. I just can't imagine getting that call as a teenager. I prayed earnestly this week that God would do a miracle and bring him back; when I heard the final news that he was taken off life-support, my heart just turned to soup and drained out of my chest.
I've heard the text on several occasions, so when the Lutheran preached the short verse, it wasn't the first time I heard the verse... it was just the first time I heard the verse in a neighboring church, watching two young girls I care about sob over the death of their daddy. What do you say? I don't know; all I know is that Jesus wept.
So if I'm sitting there weeping and snotting all over myself as daughter #1 reads a love letter to her deceased father, and Jesus also weeps at scenes like that, maybe there is hope for a clod like me?
God, please hold those girls so tight that they smell Your sweet breath. God, hold me so tight that when I pass over, it will only seem a bump in the ride. Please remove any wicked way in me, that I might kneel in Your presence. Please teach me to be holy. Please teach me who You are, because I forget that You can cry.
I knew the funeral was coming; even asked the Artist over bfast at Frenchy's what it would be like to get that phone call. I just can't imagine getting that call as a teenager. I prayed earnestly this week that God would do a miracle and bring him back; when I heard the final news that he was taken off life-support, my heart just turned to soup and drained out of my chest.
I've heard the text on several occasions, so when the Lutheran preached the short verse, it wasn't the first time I heard the verse... it was just the first time I heard the verse in a neighboring church, watching two young girls I care about sob over the death of their daddy. What do you say? I don't know; all I know is that Jesus wept.
So if I'm sitting there weeping and snotting all over myself as daughter #1 reads a love letter to her deceased father, and Jesus also weeps at scenes like that, maybe there is hope for a clod like me?
God, please hold those girls so tight that they smell Your sweet breath. God, hold me so tight that when I pass over, it will only seem a bump in the ride. Please remove any wicked way in me, that I might kneel in Your presence. Please teach me to be holy. Please teach me who You are, because I forget that You can cry.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
One Day Every 24 Hours
It's Sunday evening.
I'm 14 hours from students coming through my classroom door, and I haven't done MY homework yet.
I'm about one hour from leaving for home-group.
I've spent 4 hours since yesterday evening trying to get my computer at home to work, and now I'm not really sure why.
I have stacks of important papers that need some form of action, and I don't even know where to start. Some have been there for weeks.
I haven't read my Bible in 2 days, but the lawnmower is fixed, my yard looks better and her shower works.
God, Is it OK that I don't have it all together?
Because I failed to meet my expectations, does that make me a failure?
Maybe I should push away from the keyboard... after all, the computer is fixed for now...?
I'm done.
--Jim
I'm 14 hours from students coming through my classroom door, and I haven't done MY homework yet.
I'm about one hour from leaving for home-group.
I've spent 4 hours since yesterday evening trying to get my computer at home to work, and now I'm not really sure why.
I have stacks of important papers that need some form of action, and I don't even know where to start. Some have been there for weeks.
I haven't read my Bible in 2 days, but the lawnmower is fixed, my yard looks better and her shower works.
God, Is it OK that I don't have it all together?
Because I failed to meet my expectations, does that make me a failure?
Maybe I should push away from the keyboard... after all, the computer is fixed for now...?
I'm done.
--Jim
Monday, July 30, 2007
God and Motel 8
Have you ever found yourself in a situation where your options seem to have all run out?
Have you come to a place within your mind that there really is no hope of success, or that some dreggy alternative will have to suffice?
And then suddenly you find that there's a comfortable room for you at Motel 8?
I have. Somewhere in the panhandle of Florida is a crossroad community of hotels and restaurants, and in both coming and going we found no place to stay in any of the hotels nearest the interstate. Both times, as I'm weighing the pros and cons of sleeping in the truck, the Artist comes out of the Motel 8 office waving her recently rented room keycard. So why is it so hard to hold onto hope for just one last chance? Why do I not give this last abode the same optimistic expectation that I just extended to the last 6 places that turned us away?
And why do I treat God that way, when He continues to prove Himself faithful to me?
How often I have such a low expectation of God's response towards my supplications, only to find once again that He is consistent in His merciful providence. So why is that?
Do I fear coming off as some selfish piglet, making demands that might smack of entitlement? Or am I just afraid of that final rejection, that if there is going to be a surprise it is a pleasant one?
God is good, all the time. Lord, help my unbelief.
Have you come to a place within your mind that there really is no hope of success, or that some dreggy alternative will have to suffice?
And then suddenly you find that there's a comfortable room for you at Motel 8?
I have. Somewhere in the panhandle of Florida is a crossroad community of hotels and restaurants, and in both coming and going we found no place to stay in any of the hotels nearest the interstate. Both times, as I'm weighing the pros and cons of sleeping in the truck, the Artist comes out of the Motel 8 office waving her recently rented room keycard. So why is it so hard to hold onto hope for just one last chance? Why do I not give this last abode the same optimistic expectation that I just extended to the last 6 places that turned us away?
And why do I treat God that way, when He continues to prove Himself faithful to me?
How often I have such a low expectation of God's response towards my supplications, only to find once again that He is consistent in His merciful providence. So why is that?
Do I fear coming off as some selfish piglet, making demands that might smack of entitlement? Or am I just afraid of that final rejection, that if there is going to be a surprise it is a pleasant one?
God is good, all the time. Lord, help my unbelief.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Chap Clark and the Plankton
Chap Clark was the guest star of my dreams tonight.
A group of us youthworkers were gathered at a workshop/retreat somewhere in the dark folds of my cerebrum. Chap was using some elaborate experience (inverted roller coaster?) to viscerally illustrate some concept about God… typical way-over-the-top stuff that I associate with Youth Specialties types. OK, it was a dream, gimme a break! I forgot most of the cool stuff of the dream, but it brought to mind Chap Clark.
Chap and his wife Dee were celebrities for my generation of youth ministers, and I am some unknown quantity, floating about like so much plankton in a sea of faces.
I remember while going to Denver Seminary, Chap had started a special YL program over in Cherry Creek. That was the era of Ken West and Rich Van Pelt, a time of wonder and great learning. Chap and Dee had so much energy and vision; it’s amazing to reflect on how differently they were gifted and blessed.
Later on I would see Chap at a workshop or Youthworker’s Convention or retreat, always so confident, filled with hilarious stories and inspirational encouragement. Iconic. I would sit in the expanse of YS events and could actually see that I, too, might have something to share with others about youth ministry. Perhaps one day I might be a YS speaker or seminar leader; I loved hosting the local YS Seminars each year, inviting hundreds of youth volunteers to come from across the region for a day of equipping. I experienced a profound sense of “this is what I could do in life… equip others, or at least get them together with someone who can.” To hear crippled prophets like Yaconelli or Manning speak life into darkness?… priceless.
Then came the real-life implosion of Plankton’s youth ministry in Houston. And Chap was there. God sent him into my little shop of horrors in the angelic guise of a YS Seminar speaker. Chap gave voice to my anguish. Maybe I was not crazy; maybe I was just outnumbered. God used Chap that day in a powerful way, throwing a life preserver to Plankton who had forgotten how to swim.
Later I would email him encouragements when he came to mind, and he mailed me a brochure about a youth ministry doctoral program he was starting over on the Left Coast. That was about it; I sensed Dee and Chap were tired of emails from this recovering knave, so I stopped clogging their delete box and entered my world of ministering to God’s coolest people in a high school science classroom.
Gone are the dreams.
Gone are the visions.
Gone are the narcissistic hopes of a fledgling floater to somehow experience the celebrity of the likes of Chap and friends.
Gone are Yaconelli and Ken West, reminders that no man knows the hour.
I don’t even know where Chap Clark is today, but if you ever read this, brother, thanks for visiting my dreams this morning.
Jim Kelley, 2 am, sitting on the guest room floor of Kathy’s Gram’s casa in Florida.
A group of us youthworkers were gathered at a workshop/retreat somewhere in the dark folds of my cerebrum. Chap was using some elaborate experience (inverted roller coaster?) to viscerally illustrate some concept about God… typical way-over-the-top stuff that I associate with Youth Specialties types. OK, it was a dream, gimme a break! I forgot most of the cool stuff of the dream, but it brought to mind Chap Clark.
Chap and his wife Dee were celebrities for my generation of youth ministers, and I am some unknown quantity, floating about like so much plankton in a sea of faces.
I remember while going to Denver Seminary, Chap had started a special YL program over in Cherry Creek. That was the era of Ken West and Rich Van Pelt, a time of wonder and great learning. Chap and Dee had so much energy and vision; it’s amazing to reflect on how differently they were gifted and blessed.
Later on I would see Chap at a workshop or Youthworker’s Convention or retreat, always so confident, filled with hilarious stories and inspirational encouragement. Iconic. I would sit in the expanse of YS events and could actually see that I, too, might have something to share with others about youth ministry. Perhaps one day I might be a YS speaker or seminar leader; I loved hosting the local YS Seminars each year, inviting hundreds of youth volunteers to come from across the region for a day of equipping. I experienced a profound sense of “this is what I could do in life… equip others, or at least get them together with someone who can.” To hear crippled prophets like Yaconelli or Manning speak life into darkness?… priceless.
Then came the real-life implosion of Plankton’s youth ministry in Houston. And Chap was there. God sent him into my little shop of horrors in the angelic guise of a YS Seminar speaker. Chap gave voice to my anguish. Maybe I was not crazy; maybe I was just outnumbered. God used Chap that day in a powerful way, throwing a life preserver to Plankton who had forgotten how to swim.
Later I would email him encouragements when he came to mind, and he mailed me a brochure about a youth ministry doctoral program he was starting over on the Left Coast. That was about it; I sensed Dee and Chap were tired of emails from this recovering knave, so I stopped clogging their delete box and entered my world of ministering to God’s coolest people in a high school science classroom.
Gone are the dreams.
Gone are the visions.
Gone are the narcissistic hopes of a fledgling floater to somehow experience the celebrity of the likes of Chap and friends.
Gone are Yaconelli and Ken West, reminders that no man knows the hour.
I don’t even know where Chap Clark is today, but if you ever read this, brother, thanks for visiting my dreams this morning.
Jim Kelley, 2 am, sitting on the guest room floor of Kathy’s Gram’s casa in Florida.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Strangers and Bears
Well, we are almost home, and I've noticed something that is actually surprising to me: almost every person we've met on the road is nice.
Sure some are obnoxious, some are crude, and some are clueless about other person's feelings... but there is a niceness in each person I've met.
How much of our lives are wasted protecting ourselves from imaginary evil? I know something about evil, and it sucks... which is why our Lord told us how to pray... "Deliver us from evil...".
That's not my point. I find myself reflecting on how I've barricaded myself from an amazing world, instead of cautiously adventuring into it.
It's like that in "bear country".
A bear for the most part is an opportunistic feeder, and does not seek out humans in order to torment or destroy them. The bear just wants the peanut butter cookies you packed for the campout. That's why in every park we hiked there were signs that instructed us to put all food or scented items in the bear lockers, or at least locked inside the vehicle.
The signs did not say, "Oh my God, flee for your lives and never come back to this pristine wilderness... there are bears here!" Truth is... we never saw a bear during the one month of travels, but the majesty of jagged peaks towering over glacial valleys, ancient forests and trout rivers were available at every turn.
The mutated addage may go something like, "He couldn't see the forest because of the... bears.
God-- grant me the courage to live my life with adventure, the shalom to abide in Your presence, and the wisdom in knowing what to do if I ever meet the bear.
God's blessings,
Jim
Sure some are obnoxious, some are crude, and some are clueless about other person's feelings... but there is a niceness in each person I've met.
How much of our lives are wasted protecting ourselves from imaginary evil? I know something about evil, and it sucks... which is why our Lord told us how to pray... "Deliver us from evil...".
That's not my point. I find myself reflecting on how I've barricaded myself from an amazing world, instead of cautiously adventuring into it.
It's like that in "bear country".
A bear for the most part is an opportunistic feeder, and does not seek out humans in order to torment or destroy them. The bear just wants the peanut butter cookies you packed for the campout. That's why in every park we hiked there were signs that instructed us to put all food or scented items in the bear lockers, or at least locked inside the vehicle.
The signs did not say, "Oh my God, flee for your lives and never come back to this pristine wilderness... there are bears here!" Truth is... we never saw a bear during the one month of travels, but the majesty of jagged peaks towering over glacial valleys, ancient forests and trout rivers were available at every turn.
The mutated addage may go something like, "He couldn't see the forest because of the... bears.
God-- grant me the courage to live my life with adventure, the shalom to abide in Your presence, and the wisdom in knowing what to do if I ever meet the bear.
God's blessings,
Jim
Sunday, July 15, 2007
A Dry and Weary Land
This last day of travel has been one of great contrast.
Yesterday we awoke in West Yellowstone, Montana, and spent the first part of the day driving through Yellowstone and Grand Teton NPs, along the Snake River, through Jackson, Wyoming, then turning back east to Idaho, to hug the border road on the west side of the mountains.
It is in southwest Wyoming that we entered the strange new world around Fossil Butte, Wyoming (no Kathy, it's not fossil butt).
Massive outcrops of sediment, not like we saw in the mountains, but dry and desert-like. Contrast was found in rock formation, not vegetation, because there was none. It was like... God unplugged the drain at the bottom of the sea, and all that was left was an endless vastness, a parched wilderness that spoke of prospectors and biblical prophets. This was a place one would seek when wanting to avoid the distractions of life (unless you are a geologist), but for me, it only served a reminder that we miss our friends back home. Friends and neighbors are like water in the desert, and so our journey continues to flow downhill toward the Gulf.
Today we leave Rock Springs, Wyoming, and head toward the east plains of Colorado to visit my cousin Kirk and wife Lisa.
Here's to the homeward journey.
God bless you all.
Jim
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Mayflies in Sandpoint, Idaho
Tonight has been an exceptional evening with Alan and Heather Barber of Sandpoint, Idaho. Such a gracious couple in a beautiful bed and breakfast (www.churchstreethouse.com), and Heather is an amazing chef and proprietor of their inn. Alan and I share a distant grandfather, and he is both knowledgeable and passionate about family history. From the walks about town, to the evening- Lika- walk along 'dog beach', Kathy and both have been blessed with the time we shared.
So tonight, much to our surprise and enjoyment, Alan and Heather take us aboard their boat for a sunset dinner on Lake Pend d'Orielle. Heather prepared a shrimp/papaya/ginger salad (I told you she was a chef!) served with a local white wine and fresh bread. What a great moment!
As we enjoy our fellowship, the crepuscular creation begins a oft hidden scene, a snapshot in time often missed by a madly rushing world, available only to those who have eyes to see or trout to catch: the mayfly hatch of dusk.
It starts with my noticing spent chrysalises on the surface of the lake, discarded remnants of a former, aquatic livelihood. Then I spy a large mayfly emerging from the surface of the lake, shedding the exoskeleton of its benthic past, now floating for a moment as a miracle of new birth has occured, then it whirs into the darkening sky leaving a slight ripple on now placid lake surface. Now this is not an entomological expedition, mind you; I'm just this nature-boy-kinda dude, having great conversation with new friends, and my attention deficit kicks in and I see the hatch. The only thing cooler than seeing the hatch, is sharing it with others who are open to such things and sensing that they get the moment.
The lake trout also sensed the moment, for they were rising on all sides, sipping the inch-long insects from the surface. Very cool moment.
And then the little mayflies hatched. Or should I say expoded like a cream-colored smoke bomb! The night was upon us, but not nearly so much as this newly emerging species of mayfly! Coating the surface of the boat and all parties on board, it was enough to drive a person to abandon a cool moment and head for the docks... and so we did! Cream-colored micro-spinners ala incisors is not the best dessert to conclude a fabulous meal, but it made for a memory that I will not forget. What a great day.
God bless.
Jim
So tonight, much to our surprise and enjoyment, Alan and Heather take us aboard their boat for a sunset dinner on Lake Pend d'Orielle. Heather prepared a shrimp/papaya/ginger salad (I told you she was a chef!) served with a local white wine and fresh bread. What a great moment!
As we enjoy our fellowship, the crepuscular creation begins a oft hidden scene, a snapshot in time often missed by a madly rushing world, available only to those who have eyes to see or trout to catch: the mayfly hatch of dusk.
It starts with my noticing spent chrysalises on the surface of the lake, discarded remnants of a former, aquatic livelihood. Then I spy a large mayfly emerging from the surface of the lake, shedding the exoskeleton of its benthic past, now floating for a moment as a miracle of new birth has occured, then it whirs into the darkening sky leaving a slight ripple on now placid lake surface. Now this is not an entomological expedition, mind you; I'm just this nature-boy-kinda dude, having great conversation with new friends, and my attention deficit kicks in and I see the hatch. The only thing cooler than seeing the hatch, is sharing it with others who are open to such things and sensing that they get the moment.
The lake trout also sensed the moment, for they were rising on all sides, sipping the inch-long insects from the surface. Very cool moment.
And then the little mayflies hatched. Or should I say expoded like a cream-colored smoke bomb! The night was upon us, but not nearly so much as this newly emerging species of mayfly! Coating the surface of the boat and all parties on board, it was enough to drive a person to abandon a cool moment and head for the docks... and so we did! Cream-colored micro-spinners ala incisors is not the best dessert to conclude a fabulous meal, but it made for a memory that I will not forget. What a great day.
God bless.
Jim
Monday, July 09, 2007
Death of a Loved One
(written somewhere along the reservoirs of Oregon’s Columbia River, July 8, 2007)
Driving along the rocky escarpments and rolling scrubs of the Columbia’s valley, I am struck by the duality of this natural world. All along this man-made reservoir are volcanic rocks hurled from some ancient geologic belch, scattered among the sage and short grasses of drought. To look either starboard or port reveals the same drab, mottled khaki world, yet only meters away ebbs the life-blood of Creation as it slowly navigates some hydroelectric course downhill, and yet for the moment, it is there… right there next to the parched shrubs. If only the soil could reach out and take a drink, yet the rocky liner installed by the Corp of Engineers is effective in what is meant to do: hold water so it can flow down to the cities.
I wonder if that is why the farmer is so much more in touch with God? I’m not referring to the local crop farmer with his multibazillion-dollar irrigation rig: I’m referring to good ol’ wait-on-the-rain farmer who knows that he, himself, is not god but instead is dependant every season for the merciful drops of life. Sometimes one more rainstorm is all it takes to make it another year, and it usually comes. Life is like that.
And then you get the phone call. Why does death surprise us? Even for friends who slowly watched a loved one painfully pass, when that last sigh is released, it’s still a powerful and sobering moment. Perhaps it is the finality of the passage; perhaps our repressed hope of resurrection in this flesh is brought to light, and we experience the loss of that hope? Or maybe we just miss their company, their smile, or whatever… them.
I truly believe that the Messiah knows our hearts, our joys and our experience of the reality of death. The Gospel of John captures it in it’s pure, distilled form: “Jesus wept.” His followers were so close to Life, and they didn’t fully get the point, just like these dry grasslands. Yet we have a loving God who sent his Son into this parched world to bring it abundant life, for those who would open the dry soil of their lives to this Living Water, not for a momentary quenching, a quick fix to a personal drought, but a saturating eternity that we can share with those who would come with us to the Source.
Like the farmer, the reign often comes in a moment of drought, when resources are depleted and we find ourselves no longer able to be our own god. And to share this with a loved one on this side of the embankment is an invitation to an eternal fellowship, precipitated by God’s merciful atonement through the Christ.
I hope to see you there.
Jim
Sunday, July 08, 2007
The KumYon Diary:A Story
Have you ever made a poor decision, one that at the time you knew might be a mistake, but you did it anyway? Leaving you with a gut-wrenching epiphany, that you should not have done it? Have you ever sat in contemplation of what it was that got you into this mess? I had bad sushi at KumYon in Coos Bay, Oregon.
We are traveling the Pacific coast, fishing village after fishing city, so I thinks to myself, I does: “Wow, the sushi in this part of the world must be amazing!” That’s what happens when you put an Aggie in the navigator’s chair of 6000 mile round-trip tour of the northwest states, armed only with his wit and previous experiences. He starts getting comfortable in his #2 chair (pardon the pun) and lets down his guard, and says to himself: “Hmm, is that the salmon?” I have a masters degree in counseling; I know enough about the importance of metacognition: that the simple question, given the alimentary nature of the query, was prognostic and worthy of ponder. If a man, seasoned in sushi-dom in H-town, cannot tell if a lump of fish is salmon (aka sake), it is for the hook or famished felid, not the enteric sensitivities of oneself.
So why mention the restaurant? Is that necessary? In a socially complex and integrated sense I would have to simply reply, “I think so.” For I am sure that not all sushi in this part of the world is toxic, otherwise this Left-Coast world of low-emission legislation would have created a ban on all legal forms of the substance. No, this is a tragic tale of neglect and negligence and bears full witness to parties involved, self included. Perhaps that’s why God sometimes is so specific in the Bible.
Wouldn’t it have been more polite of St. Paul to write something like, “Beware of bad people in certain towns like Philippi”? Does he have to mention people by name?
Or what about the Old Testament codes about mildew or sex? Couldn’t its writers simply have encompassed the big idea by writing, “Hey if it’s rotten, don’t mess with it”? But the scriptures we read aren’t that vague on many issues, and church leaders and struggling sojourners apply hermeneutics like I gauged sushi, and we both find ourselves in situations that could have been avoided if a bit more self-discipline were involved.
Well, it’s the last watch of the night and the mate has stopped coughing from yonder vapours. And I think I am ready to recline supinely, enough sitting already.
Jim (2:34 am; July 8, 2007)
We are traveling the Pacific coast, fishing village after fishing city, so I thinks to myself, I does: “Wow, the sushi in this part of the world must be amazing!” That’s what happens when you put an Aggie in the navigator’s chair of 6000 mile round-trip tour of the northwest states, armed only with his wit and previous experiences. He starts getting comfortable in his #2 chair (pardon the pun) and lets down his guard, and says to himself: “Hmm, is that the salmon?” I have a masters degree in counseling; I know enough about the importance of metacognition: that the simple question, given the alimentary nature of the query, was prognostic and worthy of ponder. If a man, seasoned in sushi-dom in H-town, cannot tell if a lump of fish is salmon (aka sake), it is for the hook or famished felid, not the enteric sensitivities of oneself.
So why mention the restaurant? Is that necessary? In a socially complex and integrated sense I would have to simply reply, “I think so.” For I am sure that not all sushi in this part of the world is toxic, otherwise this Left-Coast world of low-emission legislation would have created a ban on all legal forms of the substance. No, this is a tragic tale of neglect and negligence and bears full witness to parties involved, self included. Perhaps that’s why God sometimes is so specific in the Bible.
Wouldn’t it have been more polite of St. Paul to write something like, “Beware of bad people in certain towns like Philippi”? Does he have to mention people by name?
Or what about the Old Testament codes about mildew or sex? Couldn’t its writers simply have encompassed the big idea by writing, “Hey if it’s rotten, don’t mess with it”? But the scriptures we read aren’t that vague on many issues, and church leaders and struggling sojourners apply hermeneutics like I gauged sushi, and we both find ourselves in situations that could have been avoided if a bit more self-discipline were involved.
Well, it’s the last watch of the night and the mate has stopped coughing from yonder vapours. And I think I am ready to recline supinely, enough sitting already.
Jim (2:34 am; July 8, 2007)
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Family
Life is more than breathing and eating. Life is about living out the amazing opportunities that God puts before me on a daily basis, learning to push past the incarceration of my fears and shame to try something different or perhaps just share an introduction with a complete stranger at a picnic table outside the burger grill in Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite, CA.
Family is like life. It's not just about the intergenerational passage of nucleotides, but a deep sense of connection that goes beyond metabolism and geneology. Family can include those who do not share actual blood lines: like your spouse, or perhaps an adopted child. Family can even include intimate friends, trusted and chosen people with whom you've made some form of covenant, like our "Tribe". I am Uncle, though I bear no relation outside of love for our Tribe and my god-children. It is the same, perhaps, with God. He chose me, not because I'm perfect... I suck at holiness. He chose me, because He loves me, and invites me (and you) into His household not as servants, but as His own Family.
Happy 4th, Dad.
Jim, in Novato, CA
Family is like life. It's not just about the intergenerational passage of nucleotides, but a deep sense of connection that goes beyond metabolism and geneology. Family can include those who do not share actual blood lines: like your spouse, or perhaps an adopted child. Family can even include intimate friends, trusted and chosen people with whom you've made some form of covenant, like our "Tribe". I am Uncle, though I bear no relation outside of love for our Tribe and my god-children. It is the same, perhaps, with God. He chose me, not because I'm perfect... I suck at holiness. He chose me, because He loves me, and invites me (and you) into His household not as servants, but as His own Family.
Happy 4th, Dad.
Jim, in Novato, CA
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Fresno, CA
Kelley 2007 Adventure, part 2.
Well it's June 27 in Fresno, CA, and we are clean.
Not in a metaphysical sense, mind-you, for that would take an abrasive not unlike a diamond grinder, but instead a simple shower to wash away the trail dust of 2 days of camping and hiking in Sequioa/Kings Canyon Nation Forest.
Amazing forests tucked high above deserts and California's Central Valley, trees so large that the visiting church group of Korea, 20 strong, could not circle it's girth with arms held wide. Even in the these amazing forests there was my theme-word for California so far... Arid. I don't know how the bears can make a living up here, except for panhandling, but that results in assassinations of the ursids. I guess the bullet beats starvation for the Grande Adios. The only repreave was found in the lush meadows, forming pockets of chest-high green in the cradles of sloping conifer wood.
It bothers me that I don't know most of the names of the birds and flora here, but I'm working on it, much to the roomate's chagrin.
Tomorrow we head north on CA-41 to Yosemite Park, to see what there is to be seen. The American proverb of bears climbing hills suddenly becomes very...real?
God's blessings to all,
Jim.
Well it's June 27 in Fresno, CA, and we are clean.
Not in a metaphysical sense, mind-you, for that would take an abrasive not unlike a diamond grinder, but instead a simple shower to wash away the trail dust of 2 days of camping and hiking in Sequioa/Kings Canyon Nation Forest.
Amazing forests tucked high above deserts and California's Central Valley, trees so large that the visiting church group of Korea, 20 strong, could not circle it's girth with arms held wide. Even in the these amazing forests there was my theme-word for California so far... Arid. I don't know how the bears can make a living up here, except for panhandling, but that results in assassinations of the ursids. I guess the bullet beats starvation for the Grande Adios. The only repreave was found in the lush meadows, forming pockets of chest-high green in the cradles of sloping conifer wood.
It bothers me that I don't know most of the names of the birds and flora here, but I'm working on it, much to the roomate's chagrin.
Tomorrow we head north on CA-41 to Yosemite Park, to see what there is to be seen. The American proverb of bears climbing hills suddenly becomes very...real?
God's blessings to all,
Jim.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Tulare, California
The 2007 Summer Road Trip, part 1.
Enjoying the comforts of an airconditioned hotel suite and high speed wireless (yes, I forgot my lan cable), I pause in my modestly clad moment to reflect on the first leg of our adventure to the West.
Arid. From the Texas hillcountry to the Pacific Ocean, that word best encapsulates the color brown that has accompanied us westward. Oh sure, there are repeated punctuations of artificially pumped oases sprouting monocultured produce along the way, but aside from these short-lived anecdotes live the native sage, cactus and desert scrub of this rainless region. The paradox is the plethora of people, populations pooled in pockets of prosperity, yet portraying the preposterous propensity of our species to ignore what seems obvious to this displaced Irishman... it's a desert. There are millions and millions of water-dependent people living in a desert, pumping up ancient waters and channeling the flowing remnants of some mountain rain. And more people come.
Scaling the mountains of southern California until the Pacific is in view, the landscape suddenly turns Hawaiian... tight-cramped real estate knit together with tropical vegetation and long lines of cruising cars driving slow enough to see and be seen. We envy the speeding bicycle lane passing the clogged car lanes, and appreciate afresh the respect Californians allow motorcycles as they are permitted to 'drive the line', passing between cars in their lanes. The air suddenly became cool, dropping 30 degrees in honor of the the chilled ocean waters flowing down from the Arctic. I can certainly appreciate the appeal of living in a sunny, air-conditioned climate, especially if you are an affluent extrovert.
The highlight of our trip, however, has been the opportunity to visit with old friends and family. Starting with the great visit with Dad and the Kelley boys (Justin and Chase) and a Father's Day fishing trip in Rockport, we headed up to visit the Hendersons of Junction, Texas. From Junction we headed through VanHorn, Texas, to spend the night in the mountains of Silver City, NM, a quiet college town of artisans and tourists. From there we headed north into the mountains for a scenic entrance into Phoenix, AZ, to visit with Kathy's aunt and uncle Hoag.
From Phoenix we headed down I-8 toward the coast, where we eventually met up with old friend and successful Irishman, Nick Jordan. Nick is a blessing, and we truly enjoyed the time we spent with this charming and loving father of 2 energetic boys. We also enjoyed the honor of a meal with Princess Evelyn, daughter Sheila, and Dr. Lear.
By the way, anyone heading to Tulare, CA, needs to have a meal at Cool Hand Lukes... amazing food.
Today we head into the mountains of the Sequia forests.
All for now. Jim.
Enjoying the comforts of an airconditioned hotel suite and high speed wireless (yes, I forgot my lan cable), I pause in my modestly clad moment to reflect on the first leg of our adventure to the West.
Arid. From the Texas hillcountry to the Pacific Ocean, that word best encapsulates the color brown that has accompanied us westward. Oh sure, there are repeated punctuations of artificially pumped oases sprouting monocultured produce along the way, but aside from these short-lived anecdotes live the native sage, cactus and desert scrub of this rainless region. The paradox is the plethora of people, populations pooled in pockets of prosperity, yet portraying the preposterous propensity of our species to ignore what seems obvious to this displaced Irishman... it's a desert. There are millions and millions of water-dependent people living in a desert, pumping up ancient waters and channeling the flowing remnants of some mountain rain. And more people come.
Scaling the mountains of southern California until the Pacific is in view, the landscape suddenly turns Hawaiian... tight-cramped real estate knit together with tropical vegetation and long lines of cruising cars driving slow enough to see and be seen. We envy the speeding bicycle lane passing the clogged car lanes, and appreciate afresh the respect Californians allow motorcycles as they are permitted to 'drive the line', passing between cars in their lanes. The air suddenly became cool, dropping 30 degrees in honor of the the chilled ocean waters flowing down from the Arctic. I can certainly appreciate the appeal of living in a sunny, air-conditioned climate, especially if you are an affluent extrovert.
The highlight of our trip, however, has been the opportunity to visit with old friends and family. Starting with the great visit with Dad and the Kelley boys (Justin and Chase) and a Father's Day fishing trip in Rockport, we headed up to visit the Hendersons of Junction, Texas. From Junction we headed through VanHorn, Texas, to spend the night in the mountains of Silver City, NM, a quiet college town of artisans and tourists. From there we headed north into the mountains for a scenic entrance into Phoenix, AZ, to visit with Kathy's aunt and uncle Hoag.
From Phoenix we headed down I-8 toward the coast, where we eventually met up with old friend and successful Irishman, Nick Jordan. Nick is a blessing, and we truly enjoyed the time we spent with this charming and loving father of 2 energetic boys. We also enjoyed the honor of a meal with Princess Evelyn, daughter Sheila, and Dr. Lear.
By the way, anyone heading to Tulare, CA, needs to have a meal at Cool Hand Lukes... amazing food.
Today we head into the mountains of the Sequia forests.
All for now. Jim.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Illegal immigrant
I saw him twice in my backyard this week.
The audacity to come onto my property and check out my stuff, as if he was looking over his own domain. I never gave him permission-- I've never even met this interesting squatter.
His relatives are probably from Cuba, his brown skin betrays his origins. Anolis sagrei is his name.
Like many illegal immigrants, he appears very nervous, always looking around and he immediately runs off when I go outside to meet him. I don't dislike him and I don't intend him any harm; I'm just fascinated by his differences. Also like many immigrants, his kind stick to themselves, orginally coming over to Florida and now setting up shop in Harris County, Texas; it's interesting that his kind are only found in the Houston area, probably due to the land development and need for landscaping and gardening. That will probably change in time.
He would not be able to appreciate it, but there is a growing concern for those who are already here, natives, who will be displaced by this newcomer, though the few who could proclaim it are busy playing in ditches or looking for the last remaining fireflies.
We live in a world that is changing; with the Ice Age finally starting to thaw out and the Mandarin tsunami about to sweep Westerners off their pedistals, there is something to be learned from these invaders, how they adapt to change, how they become a new dominant force, etc. Natural selection is alive and well on Wall Street and my own backyard. I guess my challenge is to enjoy the moment and those that God placed in my midst.
The audacity to come onto my property and check out my stuff, as if he was looking over his own domain. I never gave him permission-- I've never even met this interesting squatter.
His relatives are probably from Cuba, his brown skin betrays his origins. Anolis sagrei is his name.
Like many illegal immigrants, he appears very nervous, always looking around and he immediately runs off when I go outside to meet him. I don't dislike him and I don't intend him any harm; I'm just fascinated by his differences. Also like many immigrants, his kind stick to themselves, orginally coming over to Florida and now setting up shop in Harris County, Texas; it's interesting that his kind are only found in the Houston area, probably due to the land development and need for landscaping and gardening. That will probably change in time.
He would not be able to appreciate it, but there is a growing concern for those who are already here, natives, who will be displaced by this newcomer, though the few who could proclaim it are busy playing in ditches or looking for the last remaining fireflies.
We live in a world that is changing; with the Ice Age finally starting to thaw out and the Mandarin tsunami about to sweep Westerners off their pedistals, there is something to be learned from these invaders, how they adapt to change, how they become a new dominant force, etc. Natural selection is alive and well on Wall Street and my own backyard. I guess my challenge is to enjoy the moment and those that God placed in my midst.
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