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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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)

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