Mark 5: 21-34
I think it is beautiful, how Jesus looks into her eyes and calls her "Daughter".
In the pressing mob, sensitized to the plight of man and his daughter, Jesus speaks words of restoration.
And I love how she did not give up on herself; she just finally turned to the only one who could heal that unclean source in her life.
So cool.
Jesus, I love how you love.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
A Pair of Docs
Last night as I snuggled into my Jesus-pillow in the chill of furnace-less night, it struck me how convoluted my life process is, how I can be blind to my own stuff-- or more likely: how I stucco this idealized sense of reality over my own crap.
To my inner circle this is not news, this is equivalent to saying: "Fire is hot," but when yours is the lens through which the scene is captured, it's not at all that easy. After all, I often have episodes of mental acuity not unlike the three-toed sloth... I need help.
It's like: going out for coffee after eating healthy food and afterwards, perhaps a random tooth-check in the rear-view mirror notice a piece of baby spinach the size of Kansas perfectly, smoothly laid across incisors 1 and 2; and then you realize: you ate that thing hours ago; and then you realize you've flown that dental flag all through an entire social session?
I remember a similar incident when I ended up confronted my beloved Coach Calculus in the faculty workroom with: "I thought you were my friend! You let me walk around with THIS in my teeth?"--pointing at my mouth's keepsake-- after we had gone out for lunch.
No; friends need to take note: true friends inform buddies of tooth boogers.
So as I'm cuddling up with my "Jesus" pillow, now freshly aware that I "should" do this because I mentioned it on eHarmony once (and thus my inner Pharisee tries to run the show), regardless of the joy and comfort I get imagining going to sleep in my Lover's arms, it strikes me: I like to cuddle.
And I'm interested in dating other women, I must be, because logically-- you don't sign up and pay eHarmony if you are not interested in dating women, so I must be interested, so why do I say I'm only dating Jesus, when I'm out there chatting on eH-mail? or am I cheating on eH-mail? Am I two-timing Jesus? Why can't I just admit it to myself? I'm such a pretender; dang it. Or maybe just a frightened little boy in a world of experienced women? It's inner dialogs like this that make Woody Allen seem a neophyte at introspection.
The Apostle Paul and Jesus both recommend staying single; am I unfaithful?
So then I have this inner-demon self-abasement [squirrel!-- I like hyphens] session where I'm wondering "..am I a spiritual slut to Jesus," because I want to explore the possibility of finding my perfect match online, and then I remember: Jesus is ok with sluts, in fact Jesus LOVES sluts in a pure, holy, redemptive, bride-honoring kinda way that only He can do, because those of us who have been intimate with Him know he will not take advantage of our vulnerability.
So I guess I'm a sorta spiritual slut that Jesus adores, because He's cool like that.
I don't know what my future holds. This whole single-thing-again is a weird gig, trying perhaps for the first time in my life to discover what would be the perfect partner for an imperfect me, but life is good and I rejoice in it's contradictions. The Paddle Partner once reminded me of a wise old sage, whose thoughts I will conclude with here, conjured from the creativity of Margery Williams:
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
May you join me in this awesome adventure of discovery called life.
Cheers,
Jim
To my inner circle this is not news, this is equivalent to saying: "Fire is hot," but when yours is the lens through which the scene is captured, it's not at all that easy. After all, I often have episodes of mental acuity not unlike the three-toed sloth... I need help.
 |
| http://www.facts-about.org.uk/images/three-toed-sloth.jpg |
I remember a similar incident when I ended up confronted my beloved Coach Calculus in the faculty workroom with: "I thought you were my friend! You let me walk around with THIS in my teeth?"--pointing at my mouth's keepsake-- after we had gone out for lunch.
No; friends need to take note: true friends inform buddies of tooth boogers.
So as I'm cuddling up with my "Jesus" pillow, now freshly aware that I "should" do this because I mentioned it on eHarmony once (and thus my inner Pharisee tries to run the show), regardless of the joy and comfort I get imagining going to sleep in my Lover's arms, it strikes me: I like to cuddle.
And I'm interested in dating other women, I must be, because logically-- you don't sign up and pay eHarmony if you are not interested in dating women, so I must be interested, so why do I say I'm only dating Jesus, when I'm out there chatting on eH-mail? or am I cheating on eH-mail? Am I two-timing Jesus? Why can't I just admit it to myself? I'm such a pretender; dang it. Or maybe just a frightened little boy in a world of experienced women? It's inner dialogs like this that make Woody Allen seem a neophyte at introspection.
The Apostle Paul and Jesus both recommend staying single; am I unfaithful?
So then I have this inner-demon self-abasement [squirrel!-- I like hyphens] session where I'm wondering "..am I a spiritual slut to Jesus," because I want to explore the possibility of finding my perfect match online, and then I remember: Jesus is ok with sluts, in fact Jesus LOVES sluts in a pure, holy, redemptive, bride-honoring kinda way that only He can do, because those of us who have been intimate with Him know he will not take advantage of our vulnerability.
So I guess I'm a sorta spiritual slut that Jesus adores, because He's cool like that.
I don't know what my future holds. This whole single-thing-again is a weird gig, trying perhaps for the first time in my life to discover what would be the perfect partner for an imperfect me, but life is good and I rejoice in it's contradictions. The Paddle Partner once reminded me of a wise old sage, whose thoughts I will conclude with here, conjured from the creativity of Margery Williams:
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
[The Velveteen Rabbit, p.12-13]
May you join me in this awesome adventure of discovery called life.
Cheers,
Jim
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Bird Nerd: update Feb19
Figures.
About the time I invest in a fresh new bag of thistle seeds for the myriads of American goldfinches that were attacking my thistle-socks, they've gone. Poof. Nada. Zippo.
I thought the last few days it must have been the abundant rain, which shut down most of my regulars except the white-wings, but with the sun in full-beam, my backyard is astir with my feathered buddies.
The pair of Carolina wrens that live in the woodpile by my back door are doing their usual circuits: fly over to my grey rainwater catchment (redeemed trash can), up to the suet feeder (currently loaded with cayenne goodness to thwart squirrels), occasionally landing at my feet on the back porch just to make sure I'm ok, and then back to the wood pile.
A pair of Carolina chickadees make their rounds, flitting between the 3 tube feeders suspended above the back yard, then up to the evergreen Ilex, over to the green ash (appropriately verdant with this spring's leaves already), then back to the feeders. One stops and fusses at squirrel that is licking the peanut butter off a stale loaf of french bread that is impaled on dead limb of my sickly Morus tree... my favorite tree in all my life, sick with fungus, yet never refusing to provide my most spectacular migrating visitors a spring meal of ripe, white mulberries: rose-breasted grosbeaks, orchard & baltimore orioles, waxwings, painted and indigo buntings. Dear Abba, in all selfishness I plead for more years of life for this beloved tree.
As usual my mourning and white-winged doves are swarming over every flat surface that might contain spilled seeds; my platform feeder is ridiculous about 8 am with a scene fairly equivalent to a Tokyo subway in bird-world. My neighbor kids me about it, because you can see from the street the 30 to 40 dove starting to congregate in the top of the Morus, waiting for the house sparrows to come in and give the "coast's clear" signal for swarming to begin. Today the male white-wings are quite amorous in their calling... the Fraxinus' auguries must be right: spring is in the air.
A pine warbler now joins an orange-crowned warbler that has been flitting between the peanut butter smeared on the tree and the cayenne suet by the back door. About the time I think the yellow-rumped warbler has also fled northward, a male catches my attention in the top of the Morus and flits its way downward, pausing so I can confirm it with my binoculars, it's back to the afternoon sun so that its yellow rump explodes with radiance that says: I AM SO COOL!... it's times like these I truly wish I knew what kind of camera to purchase for wildlife shots like these.
A pair of blue jays must have seen or heard the doves; they just came through in their typical, raucous manner, the second lingering with it's eery clicking rattle noise that has 'velociraptor' written all through it. They apparently are less interested in the food offerings, and more interested in harassing the pair of cardinals that were there before them. It's not long before the male play's the role of slut-monkey and starts courting every available female from the boughs of the prominent trees... in fact I hear one now, about a block away, shrouded by the calls of doves, including the mourning dove (who have now joined the white-wings's call "who's cook! are youu?")... with their name-appropriate call: "I'm soo, soo bluuuue."
...and not a single goldfinch. I will post it later if they were merely out on holiday this weekend, and missed being part of my backyard bird count.
Thrice since typing I've seen the orange flutters of butterflies, gone before I get a good look. Surely they were fritillaries and not monarchs. Right? What has happened to winter?
If April showers bring May flowers, what do February showers bring?
My guess: Spring.
May God be with you: the Creator, Redeemer, and truly good Father. You are his precious child. May you experience new life in all that Jesus has for you, like Creation awakens from the lull of Houston winter. May the sunshine of his love warm you from the inside out.
Blessings,
Jim.
About the time I invest in a fresh new bag of thistle seeds for the myriads of American goldfinches that were attacking my thistle-socks, they've gone. Poof. Nada. Zippo.
I thought the last few days it must have been the abundant rain, which shut down most of my regulars except the white-wings, but with the sun in full-beam, my backyard is astir with my feathered buddies.
 |
| CrazyCreek chair at open back door, best seat in the house. |
A pair of Carolina chickadees make their rounds, flitting between the 3 tube feeders suspended above the back yard, then up to the evergreen Ilex, over to the green ash (appropriately verdant with this spring's leaves already), then back to the feeders. One stops and fusses at squirrel that is licking the peanut butter off a stale loaf of french bread that is impaled on dead limb of my sickly Morus tree... my favorite tree in all my life, sick with fungus, yet never refusing to provide my most spectacular migrating visitors a spring meal of ripe, white mulberries: rose-breasted grosbeaks, orchard & baltimore orioles, waxwings, painted and indigo buntings. Dear Abba, in all selfishness I plead for more years of life for this beloved tree.
As usual my mourning and white-winged doves are swarming over every flat surface that might contain spilled seeds; my platform feeder is ridiculous about 8 am with a scene fairly equivalent to a Tokyo subway in bird-world. My neighbor kids me about it, because you can see from the street the 30 to 40 dove starting to congregate in the top of the Morus, waiting for the house sparrows to come in and give the "coast's clear" signal for swarming to begin. Today the male white-wings are quite amorous in their calling... the Fraxinus' auguries must be right: spring is in the air.
A pine warbler now joins an orange-crowned warbler that has been flitting between the peanut butter smeared on the tree and the cayenne suet by the back door. About the time I think the yellow-rumped warbler has also fled northward, a male catches my attention in the top of the Morus and flits its way downward, pausing so I can confirm it with my binoculars, it's back to the afternoon sun so that its yellow rump explodes with radiance that says: I AM SO COOL!... it's times like these I truly wish I knew what kind of camera to purchase for wildlife shots like these.
A pair of blue jays must have seen or heard the doves; they just came through in their typical, raucous manner, the second lingering with it's eery clicking rattle noise that has 'velociraptor' written all through it. They apparently are less interested in the food offerings, and more interested in harassing the pair of cardinals that were there before them. It's not long before the male play's the role of slut-monkey and starts courting every available female from the boughs of the prominent trees... in fact I hear one now, about a block away, shrouded by the calls of doves, including the mourning dove (who have now joined the white-wings's call "who's cook! are youu?")... with their name-appropriate call: "I'm soo, soo bluuuue."
...and not a single goldfinch. I will post it later if they were merely out on holiday this weekend, and missed being part of my backyard bird count.
Thrice since typing I've seen the orange flutters of butterflies, gone before I get a good look. Surely they were fritillaries and not monarchs. Right? What has happened to winter?
If April showers bring May flowers, what do February showers bring?
My guess: Spring.
May God be with you: the Creator, Redeemer, and truly good Father. You are his precious child. May you experience new life in all that Jesus has for you, like Creation awakens from the lull of Houston winter. May the sunshine of his love warm you from the inside out.
Blessings,
Jim.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Manna from Heaven: whiners?
...
Nine hours and counting.
...
Every year I read through my One Year Bible, and it doesn't take a whole lotta time before I really start getting frustrated with mankind.
To start with? God let us run around naked in a post-Pangean paradise, eating almost anything we wanted (note: vegetarians were not considered a bit off at that time), and rules were limited to only one biggie.
..and we blew it up.
And then there was Noah's generation, so nasty that the loving Creator decided to flush the whole lot.
But my greatest "Rrrharrr!" moments come when I read myself into the script of Israel's biography. Here is a people who are unreasonably nominated to be God's very chosen people, who He keeps from starving to death by means of jacket jealousy in this amazing convoluted, perfectly planned plot, who then decide to hang out in Egypt long enough to be considered immigrant workers, and are treated as such. The get tired of the Man, so God sends Moses to take them back to their homeland, but the employers don't want to give up their laborer class, so there's this jedi battle thing with toads and hail and gnats, which are apparently significant, and they finally cross the river, this time not even getting their backs wet. They wander toward God's goal for them in a land where Moses has previously led gregarious creatures, but it was a hard land, so God had to do some miraculous stuff to provide food and water for them.
But my favorite part is Manna: God makes some organic alternative to tortilla chips show up at breakfast time every work day... all Israel has to do is pick it up and eat it or cook it or whatever.
And Israel complains. They whine about BREAD THAT FREAKING JUST CAME DOWN FROM HEAVEN SO THEY DON'T STARVE TO DEATH!
One of the greatest gifts God ever gave humanity was the reality that I'm not God and don't have access to the smite button.
Because after experiencing the worst drought in history to which we lost about half our forests, entire communities were placed on water-rationing, livestock perished horribly from starvation and thirst, and fires ravaged the tinder-like pineries of Texas...
... I would probably smite the next person who complains about this gift of rain, soaking us now for almost ten hours of replenishment.
Dear Jesus, thank you for showing us the Love of the Father. We have a long way to go, because we are no different from Israel during their walk-about, and we consider blessings to be curses-- that's how foolish we are. Thank you for understanding: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."
Boom.
Encouragement.
Nine hours and counting.
...
Every year I read through my One Year Bible, and it doesn't take a whole lotta time before I really start getting frustrated with mankind.
To start with? God let us run around naked in a post-Pangean paradise, eating almost anything we wanted (note: vegetarians were not considered a bit off at that time), and rules were limited to only one biggie.
..and we blew it up.
And then there was Noah's generation, so nasty that the loving Creator decided to flush the whole lot.
But my greatest "Rrrharrr!" moments come when I read myself into the script of Israel's biography. Here is a people who are unreasonably nominated to be God's very chosen people, who He keeps from starving to death by means of jacket jealousy in this amazing convoluted, perfectly planned plot, who then decide to hang out in Egypt long enough to be considered immigrant workers, and are treated as such. The get tired of the Man, so God sends Moses to take them back to their homeland, but the employers don't want to give up their laborer class, so there's this jedi battle thing with toads and hail and gnats, which are apparently significant, and they finally cross the river, this time not even getting their backs wet. They wander toward God's goal for them in a land where Moses has previously led gregarious creatures, but it was a hard land, so God had to do some miraculous stuff to provide food and water for them.
But my favorite part is Manna: God makes some organic alternative to tortilla chips show up at breakfast time every work day... all Israel has to do is pick it up and eat it or cook it or whatever.
And Israel complains. They whine about BREAD THAT FREAKING JUST CAME DOWN FROM HEAVEN SO THEY DON'T STARVE TO DEATH!
One of the greatest gifts God ever gave humanity was the reality that I'm not God and don't have access to the smite button.
Because after experiencing the worst drought in history to which we lost about half our forests, entire communities were placed on water-rationing, livestock perished horribly from starvation and thirst, and fires ravaged the tinder-like pineries of Texas...
... I would probably smite the next person who complains about this gift of rain, soaking us now for almost ten hours of replenishment.
Dear Jesus, thank you for showing us the Love of the Father. We have a long way to go, because we are no different from Israel during their walk-about, and we consider blessings to be curses-- that's how foolish we are. Thank you for understanding: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."
Boom.
Encouragement.
Saturday, February 04, 2012
Rain: It Feels like Redemption
It's not even 8 am, yet the sky is dark with thunder. It's been a long time since I've seen a storm like this morning's, which may explain why I, still clad in my pj's, sit in my open, front doorway looking at this refreshing performance. The coolness of winds pulled down from the birthplace of rain, the power and splendor and majesty of lightning, the sudden explosion of preflashed (and thus should have been expected) thunder like a rogue cymbal player in a tranquil sonata, the rejoicing of plants, arms lifted high in adoration-- a close first choice to the second of curling up is a cozy bed and missing the full performance.
Terrazzo is harder than crossed legs, so I submit to the complaints from my overburdened ankles and retire to my reading chair after putting on a pot of coffee, to best digest this waking thought: rain is redemption.
The notion is not hard on some levels, especially given that last year was the worst drought in recorded history, thus the 10 inches of rain this month makes up for what was withheld previously. On that note this recent December's rains celebrated the birth of more than one savior. With this winter's precipitation comes the promise of s'mores at public campgrounds, the cessation of water rationing and the refilling of our civic water sources. The pine trees of Houston feel hope again, where last season they saw almost a half of their family members and friends perish for want.
Ruth is a beautiful story in the Hebrew scriptures about a young lass married into an orthodox family from a pagan background. She is loved and accepted, yet as she approaches that time in which most young women yearn for-- that chance to participate in life-giving-- she is cut off. Not only does her husband die, but so do the other men of his immediate family, what would be "husband-redeemers" who would step in and take on the new widow, siring children to continue the estate of the missing. With no better alternative, she follows her mother-in-law back to the lands of Israel, a pair of widows now strangers in an old land. Naomi has her old friends who can connect to her past, perhaps how people rediscover each other on Facebook thirty years after high school, yet she is stuck in her pain, mired in what she no longer has... broken vision. Then Ruth finds favor with a distant relative of her late husband. Boaz is an honorable man perhaps twice her age. Naomi moves out of self-pity and uses her cultural acuity to show Ruth how to invite Boaz into her life. I love Boaz-- here is this honorable, hard-working man who sees this beautiful woman coming into his fields to glean with the poor, but because of his being a generation older he refuses his heart from considering the possibility of any kind of relationship. That is why the first step must be Ruth's; she must enter his world and overtly let Boaz know she is interested in him, because anything less than that he will assume he is being inappropriate. And he is interested; very. And she has a new life and is cared for. And she bears a child that bears evidence that she and Naomi and you and I have not been forgotten, because that child was ancestor of David and The Son of David... which is an interesting thought: unto us a Child is born because of a younger woman being proactive in her relationships. I thought men always had to make the first move, and women always "have to" be passive participants in their own courtship. I am repeatedly entertained how God's story does NOT fit our regimes of how things are "supposed" to operate, especially in suburbia: it's good the be the King. Dear Abby: never mind.
So as the rain starts up again, and I wind down my thoughts, I consider this: we are not forgotten. In the same way the rain brings hope of things to come and immediate relief from the dry weariness of daily life... in the same way God brings two cut-off widows into restored community... so we, too, are redeemed. Our loving Abba has entered into our drought and purchased our potential with the painful penalty borne on the shredded back beginning from Boaz's baby boy.
So when you see the rain, don't miss it: it is a love song sung on tin roofs reminding us to soak in the Presence of the One who loves us so much.
You are the Beloved,
Jim.
Terrazzo is harder than crossed legs, so I submit to the complaints from my overburdened ankles and retire to my reading chair after putting on a pot of coffee, to best digest this waking thought: rain is redemption.
The notion is not hard on some levels, especially given that last year was the worst drought in recorded history, thus the 10 inches of rain this month makes up for what was withheld previously. On that note this recent December's rains celebrated the birth of more than one savior. With this winter's precipitation comes the promise of s'mores at public campgrounds, the cessation of water rationing and the refilling of our civic water sources. The pine trees of Houston feel hope again, where last season they saw almost a half of their family members and friends perish for want.
Ruth is a beautiful story in the Hebrew scriptures about a young lass married into an orthodox family from a pagan background. She is loved and accepted, yet as she approaches that time in which most young women yearn for-- that chance to participate in life-giving-- she is cut off. Not only does her husband die, but so do the other men of his immediate family, what would be "husband-redeemers" who would step in and take on the new widow, siring children to continue the estate of the missing. With no better alternative, she follows her mother-in-law back to the lands of Israel, a pair of widows now strangers in an old land. Naomi has her old friends who can connect to her past, perhaps how people rediscover each other on Facebook thirty years after high school, yet she is stuck in her pain, mired in what she no longer has... broken vision. Then Ruth finds favor with a distant relative of her late husband. Boaz is an honorable man perhaps twice her age. Naomi moves out of self-pity and uses her cultural acuity to show Ruth how to invite Boaz into her life. I love Boaz-- here is this honorable, hard-working man who sees this beautiful woman coming into his fields to glean with the poor, but because of his being a generation older he refuses his heart from considering the possibility of any kind of relationship. That is why the first step must be Ruth's; she must enter his world and overtly let Boaz know she is interested in him, because anything less than that he will assume he is being inappropriate. And he is interested; very. And she has a new life and is cared for. And she bears a child that bears evidence that she and Naomi and you and I have not been forgotten, because that child was ancestor of David and The Son of David... which is an interesting thought: unto us a Child is born because of a younger woman being proactive in her relationships. I thought men always had to make the first move, and women always "have to" be passive participants in their own courtship. I am repeatedly entertained how God's story does NOT fit our regimes of how things are "supposed" to operate, especially in suburbia: it's good the be the King. Dear Abby: never mind.
So as the rain starts up again, and I wind down my thoughts, I consider this: we are not forgotten. In the same way the rain brings hope of things to come and immediate relief from the dry weariness of daily life... in the same way God brings two cut-off widows into restored community... so we, too, are redeemed. Our loving Abba has entered into our drought and purchased our potential with the painful penalty borne on the shredded back beginning from Boaz's baby boy.
So when you see the rain, don't miss it: it is a love song sung on tin roofs reminding us to soak in the Presence of the One who loves us so much.
You are the Beloved,
Jim.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Hello Goldie
Every year it happens. Most are so oblivious with chores or work or shopping or cutting people off in mall parking lots that they have no idea the events occurring before their very eyes, provided they ever hung a bird feeder and paid attention... the goldfinch have arrived in my backyard today!
My first sighting of the year was last week at the Audobon's Edith L. Moore Sactuary, which actually brought a weird sense of "what's wrong with MY feeder stations?" dejection since there was not a goldie to be found in my myriad of feeders and awaiting finch socks. Then today, with Jaxon and Angela there to verify it: boom! Goldfinch! Six feet from my kitchen window... awesomeness!
With the hummingbirds come the end of summer; the geese prove autumn. But the goldfinch is the undeniable herald of winter in Houston, TX.
I love my life. Thank you Lord.
jim
 | |
| winter goldfinch by D.McKenzie |
With the hummingbirds come the end of summer; the geese prove autumn. But the goldfinch is the undeniable herald of winter in Houston, TX.
I love my life. Thank you Lord.
jim
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
The Peaceful Middle
Sitting here at my desk this Wednesday night, listening mindlessly to my Mandarin files on iTunes as I distract myself with constant surfing of cybersociety and reminiscing on a grand week of passage: I'm over 50 years of age now.
One of the challenges of being born in mid-December is birthday cards are often anticipated as Christmas cards, and vice versa. I risked opening one from the Captain and saw a cute picture of people from my past poised for Christmas greetings. I followed the invitation and found the other has become a woods-elf; I am thankful for that-- she has enough manmadeness in the day job. May she be richly blessed, richly blessed; and her people as well.
A precious student, who I will call the Rocker, cheerfully greeted me in the hallway today: "Guess what I got you for Christmas Mr. K? Your very own Black Sabbath CD! Aren't you excited?!" --actually... I was blessed she would invite me into her music world, with her black fingernails and Ozzie Osborn stickers and daily updates when I pass her in the mornings about the latest news from some old rocker I thought was already dead! LOL- she's precious... her parents must be a hoot. I listened to my new album titled, "We Sold Our Soul to Rock and Roll"... and folks, I believe 'em. The lyrics were scary, not like demonic scary but how some people can get so alone and lost that they give up and settle for pigslop because of something that happened in life... and they never look up. They never discover the Hidden Treasure, not because it's a mystery, because it is, but because of the paradox of Abba's mercy; because of the magnitude of a beloved, bloodied, bludgeoned, brutalized and buried and born again Jesus who restores those who betray Him with sheep words.
I have no doubt that even Judas would have had a chance to be restored, except... he never looked up.
Cyber people: do not miss this: God loves you and wants to set you free from your self-induced dungeon of despair and depravity; to be able to laugh and dance and have no guilt, not because your perfect-- you're not; and not because you're perverted and rationalize away your own sin-- you can thus never be forgiven... no, I'm talking about a freedom that this world does not understand, a freedom that comes with a blood-drenched corpse, a horrified & grieved Father and a horrible price paid... not because there was no guilt, but because there WAS guilt... a penalty required, a penalty horribly and willingly paid... because you are His Beloved.
Now go: dance in His forest, His beach, His hillside, ...dance; dance like the weight of the world has been lifted off of you, because it has; dance like a child that has total permission to Be because you are.
His Beloved.
One of the challenges of being born in mid-December is birthday cards are often anticipated as Christmas cards, and vice versa. I risked opening one from the Captain and saw a cute picture of people from my past poised for Christmas greetings. I followed the invitation and found the other has become a woods-elf; I am thankful for that-- she has enough manmadeness in the day job. May she be richly blessed, richly blessed; and her people as well.
A precious student, who I will call the Rocker, cheerfully greeted me in the hallway today: "Guess what I got you for Christmas Mr. K? Your very own Black Sabbath CD! Aren't you excited?!" --actually... I was blessed she would invite me into her music world, with her black fingernails and Ozzie Osborn stickers and daily updates when I pass her in the mornings about the latest news from some old rocker I thought was already dead! LOL- she's precious... her parents must be a hoot. I listened to my new album titled, "We Sold Our Soul to Rock and Roll"... and folks, I believe 'em. The lyrics were scary, not like demonic scary but how some people can get so alone and lost that they give up and settle for pigslop because of something that happened in life... and they never look up. They never discover the Hidden Treasure, not because it's a mystery, because it is, but because of the paradox of Abba's mercy; because of the magnitude of a beloved, bloodied, bludgeoned, brutalized and buried and born again Jesus who restores those who betray Him with sheep words.
I have no doubt that even Judas would have had a chance to be restored, except... he never looked up.
Cyber people: do not miss this: God loves you and wants to set you free from your self-induced dungeon of despair and depravity; to be able to laugh and dance and have no guilt, not because your perfect-- you're not; and not because you're perverted and rationalize away your own sin-- you can thus never be forgiven... no, I'm talking about a freedom that this world does not understand, a freedom that comes with a blood-drenched corpse, a horrified & grieved Father and a horrible price paid... not because there was no guilt, but because there WAS guilt... a penalty required, a penalty horribly and willingly paid... because you are His Beloved.
Now go: dance in His forest, His beach, His hillside, ...dance; dance like the weight of the world has been lifted off of you, because it has; dance like a child that has total permission to Be because you are.
His Beloved.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Plate Glass Windows
At a birthday party last night I was privy to a serious conversation between 27 yr olds: "So which is really the 'hard' birthday age: 40 or 50?"..."Oh, definitely 40".
Really.
40.
In half a month I will be a decade beyond what they think is the hardest birthday; I don't see it that way.
At 40 years of age, the 10-year-social-bubble means you can hang out with 30-yr-olds and 50-yr-olds.
When you're 50... the 30 yr-olds are behind this giant shield of glass, so different, so far removed.
So much like being in a monkey cage, when coworkers and ministry buddies are almost all younger than you.
Turning 50 sometimes feels like trying to figure out how to die gracefully, and the passion to reach teenagers for Christ, though it's still there-- now feels like it's done behind giant plate glass windows. I'm guessing that tension is why so many of my peers have stepped out of youth ministry, and tried rationalizing a new gig... it's hard to be the odd-man-out.
Life is good because God is good.
I enjoy my days of simplicity; things have changed, but I'm not dead yet.
I love you, Jesus. Teach me to learn how you love me.
Really.
40.
In half a month I will be a decade beyond what they think is the hardest birthday; I don't see it that way.
At 40 years of age, the 10-year-social-bubble means you can hang out with 30-yr-olds and 50-yr-olds.
When you're 50... the 30 yr-olds are behind this giant shield of glass, so different, so far removed.
So much like being in a monkey cage, when coworkers and ministry buddies are almost all younger than you.
Turning 50 sometimes feels like trying to figure out how to die gracefully, and the passion to reach teenagers for Christ, though it's still there-- now feels like it's done behind giant plate glass windows. I'm guessing that tension is why so many of my peers have stepped out of youth ministry, and tried rationalizing a new gig... it's hard to be the odd-man-out.
Life is good because God is good.
I enjoy my days of simplicity; things have changed, but I'm not dead yet.
I love you, Jesus. Teach me to learn how you love me.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Roach Bait
So, there are certain things that a man takes for granted when he goes to bed. Things like: he will not be robbed while he sleeps, or his house will not catch fire, or that he will not be attacked by insects in his slumber. This week a roach tried to eat me.
I should have paid heed to the foreshadowing when this nervy intruder crawled across my neck: I flicked it off, hoping it was a bookmark or something left on the covers and finding in the flicking an object of troublesome mass-- not a bookmark. Seeing that there was no evidence of any intruder, I turned off the light again and tried to go back to sleep, consoling myself with thoughts of how maybe... it was a cricket, ...yeah a cricket, and: "boy, I bet that scared that cricket", etc. I was successful and at that moment before dropping off into deep rest, when I felt this sharp pinch on my left bicep! I quickly looked over in the dim glow of my neighbor's lights and saw the large, dark insect-- eating me!
There are some things that are just wrong: killing puppies; pedophilia in any form; finding body parts in your fast-food, and... being eaten by a roach in your sleep.
So people; it's personal.
They're not only eating the old crust off your toothbrush at night-- they're waiting for YOU.
...thought you should know.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
God's Littlest Angel Visited Me this Week
There has always been a special place in my heart for birds.
From the time I was a child I marveled at these amazing winged creatures who symbolized both frailty and freedom. To be honest I started out a bit like John Audubon with the less-than-sustainable methods of shooting and trapping them to get close enough to see their details, though I guess the trapping at least was catch-and-release. I come from a family of hunters and for a child to learn to stalk a starling with a BB gun, that was considered part of the process of skill-honing.
Somewhere along the way I grew into the matured-hunter mentality: all life has value, and to take an animal for food is a humbling process. Perhaps that is why I spend more time watching wildlife from my tree stand than ever touching my bow and arrow. I have seen such amazing things this last decade from my arboreal nest, but I can't remember the last time I took a deer. Every year I've teased nice bucks beneath me by pelting them with acorns--I just don't want to take them. I'd rather use my bird book and identify some avian species than release an arrow. (I tell myself I'm waiting for a feral hog or spike to come my way. I'm still waiting.)
Birds have become angels to me, messengers to me that my heavenly Abba is thinking of me with love and adoration, like any good Father. So many times in my deepest of despairs or trials have I been visited by these angels. The owl that flew right over me in the backyard as my wife was telling me she was leaving me; my first golden eagle in the wild within 24 hours of asking God to show me an eagle in an exercise of childlike reception (which transformed me!), and then this week with the hummingbirds.
My local PBS station aired a remarkable program on hummingbirds; it boggles my mind that something that tiny travels continents every year in migrations without the aid of a butterfly's sails catching a north wind spawned by the latest hurricane. Yet this week my backyard is a flurry of dogfighting, nectar-feeding angels. The best thing I did was purchasing the third feeder; much harder to defend when there's three offerings.
So this week three different times I've had hummingbirds drinking from feeders that were in my hand. The first time I was holding the feeder up to hang it back into the tree after replacing the nectar (Texas is enduring the worst heat wave in our nation's history and nectar goes bad in 2 days!) and they started feeding before I could get it hung. The second was even cooler: I took a feeder down and was carrying it to the house to replace nectar and they were feeding on it as i walked. But the most amazing visitation was when I was painting my third feeder. Repeatedly birds would hover around the feeder looking at the decorative flowers but not able to discern the ports because they were simple holes with no color to mark it. So I took some non-toxic yellow paint and started coloring in petals around the ports on this feeder, and this female ruby-throat comes and decides she will feed on the holes opposite where I'm working. Folks, there is something miraculous and angelic to me when this amazing creature watches you from 16 inches away, trusting you to not harm it, perhaps understanding the relationship between this tall, naked ape and the gift of nectar that appears. A feathered angel so small and so close that I could have killed it in a moment, yet that would be an act incomprehensible to me, I adore these creatures so.
May I grow to trust the Father like that.
From the time I was a child I marveled at these amazing winged creatures who symbolized both frailty and freedom. To be honest I started out a bit like John Audubon with the less-than-sustainable methods of shooting and trapping them to get close enough to see their details, though I guess the trapping at least was catch-and-release. I come from a family of hunters and for a child to learn to stalk a starling with a BB gun, that was considered part of the process of skill-honing.
Somewhere along the way I grew into the matured-hunter mentality: all life has value, and to take an animal for food is a humbling process. Perhaps that is why I spend more time watching wildlife from my tree stand than ever touching my bow and arrow. I have seen such amazing things this last decade from my arboreal nest, but I can't remember the last time I took a deer. Every year I've teased nice bucks beneath me by pelting them with acorns--I just don't want to take them. I'd rather use my bird book and identify some avian species than release an arrow. (I tell myself I'm waiting for a feral hog or spike to come my way. I'm still waiting.)
Birds have become angels to me, messengers to me that my heavenly Abba is thinking of me with love and adoration, like any good Father. So many times in my deepest of despairs or trials have I been visited by these angels. The owl that flew right over me in the backyard as my wife was telling me she was leaving me; my first golden eagle in the wild within 24 hours of asking God to show me an eagle in an exercise of childlike reception (which transformed me!), and then this week with the hummingbirds.My local PBS station aired a remarkable program on hummingbirds; it boggles my mind that something that tiny travels continents every year in migrations without the aid of a butterfly's sails catching a north wind spawned by the latest hurricane. Yet this week my backyard is a flurry of dogfighting, nectar-feeding angels. The best thing I did was purchasing the third feeder; much harder to defend when there's three offerings.
So this week three different times I've had hummingbirds drinking from feeders that were in my hand. The first time I was holding the feeder up to hang it back into the tree after replacing the nectar (Texas is enduring the worst heat wave in our nation's history and nectar goes bad in 2 days!) and they started feeding before I could get it hung. The second was even cooler: I took a feeder down and was carrying it to the house to replace nectar and they were feeding on it as i walked. But the most amazing visitation was when I was painting my third feeder. Repeatedly birds would hover around the feeder looking at the decorative flowers but not able to discern the ports because they were simple holes with no color to mark it. So I took some non-toxic yellow paint and started coloring in petals around the ports on this feeder, and this female ruby-throat comes and decides she will feed on the holes opposite where I'm working. Folks, there is something miraculous and angelic to me when this amazing creature watches you from 16 inches away, trusting you to not harm it, perhaps understanding the relationship between this tall, naked ape and the gift of nectar that appears. A feathered angel so small and so close that I could have killed it in a moment, yet that would be an act incomprehensible to me, I adore these creatures so.
May I grow to trust the Father like that.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
A Meandering Hermit
To be alone is in no way a bad thing; for many it is a gift, a reprieve from the noise of a busy world, and I share in that appreciation. A hermit does not have to wait for somebody else to get ready, or worse: bear the guilt of realizing he/she is about to make somebody else tardy because of poor timing. And there is a depth in one's spiritual walk that is profoundly enhanced, leaning into the bosom of Jesus for the intimacy and acceptance that He alone can ultimately fulfill, awakening each day with, "Good morning, Jesus," and concluding each bedtime with, "Good night, Jesus- I love you." But there is something to be said about flesh-and-bone fellowship, too.
Last week I went back-to-back chaperoning student retreats, and over the course of 5 nights I bunked with 3 different sets of men... it was awesome. Yes, some are especially gifted at snoring and others reenact some dreamy story verbally as the darkened room listens to make sense of the prose, but the blessing of laughing with others right before slumber, or awakening to quietly go out for morning devotions while others lie peacefully in their dreams-- that is so cool! It is like the incarnation of scriptural promises like, "I am with you always...". I love being around people.
Some people do not understand my solitude: "Jim, if you like being around people so much, why aren't you dating anyone so you can get married?"
That makes about as much sense to me right now as staying in the water after a shark attack, so that you can overcome your fear, even though you are now bleeding. (It's not the same-- but that's what came to mind so I typed it. In reading this I'm gonna guess that I'm simply not ready for anything like dating, especially in our culture today... so confusing :) .)
Instead I continue to reflect on Paul's words from 1Cor.7 and elsewhere: "...it is good for you to remain as you are... are you unmarried? Do not look for a wife... I want you to be free from concern. An unmarried man is concerned about the Lord's affairs-- how he can please the Lord."
So I meander about in this amazing life, not afraid to stroll by myself yet blessed when accompanied by others-- as I walk into this Adventure called life. Like the Mariposa and the Mermaid, I choose the discipline of thankfulness in all things this hermit encounters. Come Lord Jesus.
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
Life Held in Jars
When I was a child, I spoke and thought like a child, I acted like a child. And now that I'm a man, I can speak much more effectively and I've wisened up a bit, too. But I still love to look at nature through a childlike wonder.
I have fond memories visiting my cousins and trapping lightning bugs in mason jars, somehow trying to trap the magic of their natural illumination. It never really worked. Worse: they often died before they could be set free. Unintentional death chambers that were intended to brighten life.
How often children's neglect leads to unintentional death; how tragic when one becomes aware of the autobiography of one's past.
What is this need to store things?
To capture something in order to somehow cling to its essence?
And what was the Father thinking when he put the fragility of a butterfly with the mortality of mankind?
We are jars of clay, fragile earthen vessels that have been baked and hardened to serve a purpose but are destined to be broken.
How very sad I am at Chelsey's death.
Goodbye for now, little sister. Comfort your grieving parents in their sleep.
I have fond memories visiting my cousins and trapping lightning bugs in mason jars, somehow trying to trap the magic of their natural illumination. It never really worked. Worse: they often died before they could be set free. Unintentional death chambers that were intended to brighten life.
How often children's neglect leads to unintentional death; how tragic when one becomes aware of the autobiography of one's past.
What is this need to store things?
To capture something in order to somehow cling to its essence?
And what was the Father thinking when he put the fragility of a butterfly with the mortality of mankind?
We are jars of clay, fragile earthen vessels that have been baked and hardened to serve a purpose but are destined to be broken.
How very sad I am at Chelsey's death.Goodbye for now, little sister. Comfort your grieving parents in their sleep.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
June 2011, in transition?
Half a year from half a century.
I keep reminding myself that I'm not dead yet.
It's interesting the psychic wrestling match that goes on in one's noggin when you don't have any children or significant others to distract you with their lives... this is definitely a passage/season in my life.
I see pictures of myself and am somehow angry at how old I look, angry that I need reading glasses, angry at how my knee hurts going down stairs or how my back hurts getting out of bed. Perhaps the anger is just masked sadness; sadness that I'm going the way of my forefathers, sadness that I can no longer 'compete' for the affections of the maidens, accentuated by the death of my marriage? Sadness for the lost years?
Or maybe fear: fear of inadequacy, that lingering sense of 'good, but not good enough'? The stench of spiritual battle betrays the lies spoken to my soul... how much of my life have I surrendered as homage to that foul Deceiver?
I went to Southwells today for a burger and saw an old friend I last saw 25 years ago. Another old friend contacted me today on facebook... 29 years since we've seen each other.
Twenty-nine years... that's the age of my 'older' co-volunteers with YoungLife.
It is truly a lifetime, 29 years.
The guys in my Bible study talk about sending their children off to college; soon they will be talking about holding their grandkids. There's sadness there, too-- grieving the loss of a child I never had, a reminder perpetuated every year on Father's Day. Makes me want to go live in a cave.
I know that Jesus loves me, that the Father is faithful in His compassions for me. I am not complaining... more like confessing. I know what it is to go to sleep at night alone in a 3-bedroom home, concluding consciousness with, "Good night, Jesus," as I hug the body pillow on my daybed. Every night. That's just true.
I know that perhaps this passage, this transition in life will probably erupt into some kind of sunshiny day and that I may be just hormonal (or sub-hormonal), or maybe this is the family blessing of multi-generational depressive states I am passing through?
There is within me a dissatisfaction with the way things are... it was not so long ago I had mastered the art of contentment. Have I failed in my current discontent?
It's not pretty inside right now, but I'm 50 next winter.. I no longer have the energy to pretend that everything is 'just fine' right now, and I also acknowledge: I'm not dead yet... there is more life ahead of me.
So thank you, Jesus, for what I do have. Thank you that I still have my parents. Thank you that I have a handful of good friends who are trustworthy and can tolerate my funkiness.
I'm not dead yet; help me to live for You, Jesus. Help me to embrace the "abundant life" you promise us.
Speak to me words of sonship, Father... erase these childhood tapes of orphan-spirit.
Help me to experience Your Love, that I may love others well.
Good night, Jesus.
Jim
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Life is precious
Doctors told them their fetus would not make it, maybe they should consider "terminating" the pregnancy?
They chose not to kill their unborn child.
She lives...
... so does the presence of suffering warrant the death of the sufferer?
...if a child is in pain, should the parents kill their child?
... we do it with our pets, right?
No?
Friday, April 08, 2011
April's Fool, Orlando-style
It's Friday evening; I'm sitting in my lab trying to muster one last push to finish grading biology tests after a 12-day week. So tired. Why?...
Last week I was blessed to chaperon the HCHS band trip to Orlando--that's right, Disney World. There was a competition on the front-end of the trip and our kids did great (Yay Ms Redmon), but the zaniest part of the trip was going around on the rides with "the girls".
My escorts through NeverNever Land were so ridiculously fun, and because most of them were young & married, there really was no awkwardness to it for me-- thank you, JESUS.
So I have to start with describing Tinkerbell, my "guide-to-rediscovering-my-lost-childhood" escort. She grew up around Orlando, FLA, so immediately had a game-plan on how to do each park, starting with the FastPass. The strategy is pure: go immediately to your favorite ride and use your ticket to get its FastPass ticket, then wait in line and ride any nearby amusement. When done with that ride, go use the FastPass ticket; repeat. Beautiful. What's fun about Tinkerbell is she loves to laugh and is...well... crazy. Her idea of Heaven looks a lot like a slumber party in the top of Magic Kingdom's palace with a banquet room lined with princess apparel and unicorns. And there's this fresh sense that all the good things life has to offer are hers to enjoy, and for us oldest-child types-- it's a freedom magnificent to witness.
My second guide, Sleepy, is much like Tinker with the exception that she doesn't let anyone know she's zany until it's too late and you are socially committed with her in a situation. The best-case scenario is to have Sleepy and Tinker together, so they can feed off each other into a vortex of laughter (why is hanging up a phone so funny?).
My last guide I shall call Screamer, not because she's loud, though she can be, but because she can instill fear in co-passengers on a shuttle bus with her, "OMG, OMG, this is gonna be so scary"-- which is very confusing when riding next to her on roller coasters. This is because she gets so worked up and anxious, and starts to go through this pre-ride mental checklist ("ok, I will be needing to use this hand-hold, so you, Jim, will need to find something else to grab onto..this ride is so scary..."), which lulls you into thinking, "Sheesh, what an over-reaction," and then the Tower of Terror throws you around like a human yo-yo at 3-Gs and you realize that "the girls" have already stepped out of the now-stopped box of death and you're still holding onto the allotted side hand-hold with a death-grip that could probably pinch a python in half.
I've never been a roller-coaster rider; I don't like being afraid, and Lord knows I already have enough genetically-bestowed anxiety in my life. So when friends like The Paddle-Partner (aka Snorting Loon) dare me to ride Six Flag's "Batman", it's with great personal angst that I accept. But with this year's Orlando Trip with "the girls", something different happened. It's like I didn't have to be the older, responsible brother-- I could try out rides I would NEVER have ridden solo-- and on the other side, realize that perhaps I'm a bit hardier than I thought going into the thing.
And I wonder if God is like that?
I wonder if God gives us fellow pilgrims along our way, so that when we face the horrors and fears that life's challenges may bring, we can just get a grip--hold on-- scream if able-- and make it through that ride?
I wonder if there is a freedom that awaits beyond the pretentious cloak raised by the demons of fear, a cloak that amounts to little more than vapors in passing through, but in approaching seems more like an impenetrable barricade.
I wonder what it would be like to start seeing all the [crud] that life throws my way as an amusement ride?
That would be very cool.
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
Note to self
On my desk I wrote a note to myself.
I see it everyday I sit at my classroom desk.
I forget what I see the moment I look away. It says:
"I have an important job to do for God; my time on earth is limited, but probably longer than I imagine. God give me the courage to recklessly obey you!"
I'm not dead yet, but I have less years ahead of me than behind me.
In talking to a close friend about the pros/cons of dating women in their 30's (who I had a ridiculous crush on), this time frame was painfully brought to my attention." It would be 'unfair' to.." the younger woman (assuming if she were even interested! LOL!), because she's still starting life and I'm.. well.. I'm not dead yet.
It was the truth, and it sucks.
I'm staring at a half-century of life: what do I have to show for it?
I've loved people and I've tried to be faithful to my life's calling to reach high school students with the Love of Christ Jesus.
I've failed to be perfect; terribly.
I've hurt some folks with my words or behaviors; been hurt by others, too. I hate both realities.
It seems like I've only just started learning about Jesus' love for Jim; only just started learning how to love others.
I AM Bill Cosby's video "49"... except for the marital part... that's now gone.
I've enjoyed talking with others my age, but most have kids going off to college or starting families of their own; most of the folks I know are from work or in ministry with me, and most of them are younger. Much younger.
Some say I'm wise; I think maybe I'm just an old dog that knows a bit more about chasing cats than those who still have more years ahead of them. Maybe I'm just a cynical old fart. I like to think of it as pragmatic, but there is sometimes an edge to my words... definitely needs to be filed down... keeps snagging on things, like sensitive people. I don't like that about myself, but usually don't see it until later or when being confronted (though sometimes unfairly---aka, don't ask me something and then get mad when I tell you what you asked for... that's not right).
So Jesus, I'm not dead yet. What can you do with a fairly well-used white man who has a passion for Nature, a childlike curiosity, a hunger for knowledge, a love of laughter and sushi; who has a respect for your written word, but not enough to be so committed that I die trying to reach the lost in places nobody else dares go. Yet you tell us all: "go", right?
So is there hope for us?
I think I'll ride out to Tully and watch Northbrook's soccer game now.
Grading is almost done; there's always tomorrow. Or it doesn't matter.
I'm not dead yet. But I'm not convinced I'm fully alive.
Jesus, I wanna live.
love,
Jim
I see it everyday I sit at my classroom desk.
I forget what I see the moment I look away. It says:
"I have an important job to do for God; my time on earth is limited, but probably longer than I imagine. God give me the courage to recklessly obey you!"
I'm not dead yet, but I have less years ahead of me than behind me.
In talking to a close friend about the pros/cons of dating women in their 30's (who I had a ridiculous crush on), this time frame was painfully brought to my attention." It would be 'unfair' to.." the younger woman (assuming if she were even interested! LOL!), because she's still starting life and I'm.. well.. I'm not dead yet.
It was the truth, and it sucks.
I'm staring at a half-century of life: what do I have to show for it?
I've loved people and I've tried to be faithful to my life's calling to reach high school students with the Love of Christ Jesus.
I've failed to be perfect; terribly.
I've hurt some folks with my words or behaviors; been hurt by others, too. I hate both realities.
It seems like I've only just started learning about Jesus' love for Jim; only just started learning how to love others.
I AM Bill Cosby's video "49"... except for the marital part... that's now gone.
I've enjoyed talking with others my age, but most have kids going off to college or starting families of their own; most of the folks I know are from work or in ministry with me, and most of them are younger. Much younger.
Some say I'm wise; I think maybe I'm just an old dog that knows a bit more about chasing cats than those who still have more years ahead of them. Maybe I'm just a cynical old fart. I like to think of it as pragmatic, but there is sometimes an edge to my words... definitely needs to be filed down... keeps snagging on things, like sensitive people. I don't like that about myself, but usually don't see it until later or when being confronted (though sometimes unfairly---aka, don't ask me something and then get mad when I tell you what you asked for... that's not right).
So Jesus, I'm not dead yet. What can you do with a fairly well-used white man who has a passion for Nature, a childlike curiosity, a hunger for knowledge, a love of laughter and sushi; who has a respect for your written word, but not enough to be so committed that I die trying to reach the lost in places nobody else dares go. Yet you tell us all: "go", right?
So is there hope for us?
I think I'll ride out to Tully and watch Northbrook's soccer game now.
Grading is almost done; there's always tomorrow. Or it doesn't matter.
I'm not dead yet. But I'm not convinced I'm fully alive.
Jesus, I wanna live.
love,
Jim
Monday, January 31, 2011
Day 354
From DivorceCare daily encouragements:
Can God Use Divorced People?
Day 354
Some people feel that because they have been divorced or because they have made so many mistakes in their past, God cannot use them to be godly leaders, teachers, role models, or a help to other people. This is not true. Your past does not determine your future. Read the Bible to discover examples of God using people with unexpected pasts to do great and mighty works for Him.
In Hebrews chapter eleven God lists heroes and heroines of faith. This list includes a murderer (Moses), an adulterer (David), and a womanizer (Samson). These people moved on beyond their failures and followed God. They were used to accomplish God's purpose in their generations.
Before Kay Arthur had a saving relationship with Christ, she was divorced, and she did many things that did not honor God. Today, she is a respected Christian speaker, author, and teacher through the grace of God.
She says: "God chooses the base things, the foolish things, the things that are despised, the things that are nothing, so that no flesh can glory in His presence. He knew what was going to happen to me before I came to know Christ, and He has used that as a platform for ministry. You can step forward into any service that the Lord has called you to."
God has chosen you for a specific service—take the challenge to walk forward in that!
"The base things of the world and the things which are despised God has chosen, and the things which are not, to bring to nothing the things that are, that no flesh should glory in His presence" (1 Corinthians 1:28-29 NKJV).
Holy God, I am willing to be used by You. I want to be a part of Your glorious plan in this world. I know I can be victorious through You. Amen.
Can God Use Divorced People?
Day 354
Some people feel that because they have been divorced or because they have made so many mistakes in their past, God cannot use them to be godly leaders, teachers, role models, or a help to other people. This is not true. Your past does not determine your future. Read the Bible to discover examples of God using people with unexpected pasts to do great and mighty works for Him.
In Hebrews chapter eleven God lists heroes and heroines of faith. This list includes a murderer (Moses), an adulterer (David), and a womanizer (Samson). These people moved on beyond their failures and followed God. They were used to accomplish God's purpose in their generations.
Before Kay Arthur had a saving relationship with Christ, she was divorced, and she did many things that did not honor God. Today, she is a respected Christian speaker, author, and teacher through the grace of God.
She says: "God chooses the base things, the foolish things, the things that are despised, the things that are nothing, so that no flesh can glory in His presence. He knew what was going to happen to me before I came to know Christ, and He has used that as a platform for ministry. You can step forward into any service that the Lord has called you to."
God has chosen you for a specific service—take the challenge to walk forward in that!
"The base things of the world and the things which are despised God has chosen, and the things which are not, to bring to nothing the things that are, that no flesh should glory in His presence" (1 Corinthians 1:28-29 NKJV).
Holy God, I am willing to be used by You. I want to be a part of Your glorious plan in this world. I know I can be victorious through You. Amen.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
P. taeda
Needles of twinkling gold
Glistening in post-crepuscular breath,
The glow descends my eastern guardian
To remind me...
Today is a new day.
Glistening in post-crepuscular breath,
The glow descends my eastern guardian
To remind me...
Today is a new day.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Happy New Year to Me
It's a New Year. It's been weird but good.
We started this year with birds dropping out of the sky dead and dying, in 3 different states, plus in other nations... mainly icterids, and they said it happens all the time? Um no.
They say the only difference is that technology this year makes it more obvious when it happens, because we share this information with each other--I do believe we all had blogs and email last year, and the year before that... and before that.
So when one checks the online chat-stream, we don't hear: "oh yeah this happens all the time" from all these different citizens from around the world... we cry out, "What the hell is going on? Birds are dropping out of the sky dead and dying.. not sick under a tree or at a water hole... flying-and-now-dead... dropping out of the sky... they were healthy enough to fly as a flock and now they're scattered across our lawns like black crabgrass!"
That's what we are saying to each other.
Crazy.
It's a fresh new year, and I'm pumped about what God has for us!
KSBJ now has NGENradio; Verizon is getting the IPhone; electric cars are now a reality... pretty cool moment.
I am thankful for a clean start.
I am so thankful for what I'm learning about who I am in Christ.
I am so thankful for friends who show me how to love and trust.
I am so thankful for an amazing place to earn a living.
I am so hungry to experience the Power of the Holy Spirit, whether in humility (scary) or victory. Jesus, broaden my knowledge of who I am.
It's a New Year, but it's a good one.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
birdfeeder, update
18Dec2010
Let me first exclaim that today I saw my first verified male goldfinch in the backyard, feeding on the thistle sock! That just blesses me to my core (to know me is to love me).
Let me first exclaim that today I saw my first verified male goldfinch in the backyard, feeding on the thistle sock! That just blesses me to my core (to know me is to love me).
So in last episode there was proposal to switch feeders around to test hypothesis that proximity to home was issue. Feeders switched.
No difference.
It's the week before Christmas, 55 deg.F, little wind and sunny.
The most utilized feeder in my back yard is:
The square, multi-port feeder with spring squirrel-guard.
Most every bird will use it, but the house-sparrows mob it like boys at an available X-box controller at a video store demo.
The second-most used feeder is the large cylindrical feeder
w/squirrel-deterrent portals.
The Carolina chickadees and red-bellied woodpecker love this one,
plus an unidentified/ grey mystery warbler w/ double wing bands that looks similar to young yellow-rumped
warbler..?
The orange limb-spike is a near-third.
I am impressed with the diversity of
birds that enjoy eating oranges, cut in half and impaled on a nail.
The most common visitor is the red-bellied woodpecker, followed by the mystery-warbler.
The least used feeder is the small tube feeder near the tree. Initially I put thistles in it t
hinking a goldfinch may show up, but was sitting unused for weeks so I rotated the ports to open feeding and started refilling with birdseed mix. Initially the whitewings were using it, but perhaps it's proximity to the tree puts them off, or the thistle sock which hangs 8 inches away (my idea was that perhaps a bird feeding at the tube may realize there are thistles in the sock and maybe learn to feed there-- that was before the goldfinch showed up today: obviously needs no lessons on how to feed on the sock!)
It's a very good day.
Christmas activities are stirring, including dusting off seasonal props.
God Bless and Merry Christmas to all.
Jim
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