I’ll never forget the pain of turning a group back just minutes from the summit of Horn Peak. It had begun sleeting, and the slopes on either side of the remaining 600-meter ridge were unforgivingly steep. #hornpeak #climbinglessons #unpopulardecisions #hebrews13v17
I left the hashtags in here to remind me that this reflection was prompted not by mountain climbing but by something much harder: leading when the decisions are not popular with everyone.
There are people out there who don’t ask “WHY did you lead in this or that way?” Instead, they TELL ME (and other leaders) “Here’s why you did this or that.” Somehow, they “know” the leader’s motivation. And what they “know” is always the worst possible motive: “You’re fearful,” “You like to control people,” “You are following political motives rather than the Spirit of God.”
To such complainers, I could explain things in a better way. But why even try, when they already “know”?
LET’S BE ROSES The rose puts God’s goodness and beauty on display. To every passer-by, it offers a scent that says “You are loved,” a form that says, “God cares about all His creatures.”
Correction fluid only hides. It hides in its little bottle, which hides in the desk drawer. It only comes out to hide errors. Swabbed on a mistake, it says, “We’d all be better off without you.”
Ever since I began writing poetry on a regular basis, I have also pondered what this activity indicates about me: what are the weaknesses a poet needs to acknowledge, and what are the strengths he can celebrate?
A Sample Weakness [EDIT: I originally wrote and published this late at night, but woke up before dawn with the realization that I had to UNpublish the post and come back with some edits. I had revealed more than I ought to reveal, which is the very tendency I lament in a paragraph below. Someday, the world will suit a poet like me. But not today]
Today, I had a conversation with the senior pastor of a local church. Before I headed over to his church, Susan cautioned me: “Don’t reveal more than you should.” She knows me well. I said, “Pray that I’ll control my mouth, and that I’ll be a blessing to him.”
So, I met the senior pastor at the back door of his church. We walked in, and I immediately began pelting him with questions about his church: how they interact with the neighborhood, how well that is working, etc. After looking at his sanctuary, and talking about how it has served during the pandemic, we went to a more private setting downstairs. I began….
“These last few years, I have been developing as a poet. While some think that poets conceal, their actual drive is to reveal. That’s my natural inclination. But today, I need to control that. I’ll be talking about [something private], and there are things I should not say. Forgive me.” The pastor was understanding, and we talked for another 40 minutes. I believe that by God’s grace I did not tell him more about [the private matter] than I should. Reflecting on what I shared, the pastor gave me hope that I 1) am not alone and 2) serve a God who is changing lives.
The Poet as a Lithe Cat Who Loves Counselors The little story above is about how I deal with the downside of being a poet: I have to be extra careful about not revealing what’s in my heart. But I usually am not so guarded. Think about it…. A poet is always digging into his own heart to surface emotions and thoughts that would rather stay hidden. He drags them up and exposes them to the light of day where they can be dealt with, sometimes by the poet himself, but more often by the reader, by wiser souls, by counselors. That’s why the poet is a friend of counselors. Like a domestic cat, he brings his daily offering of lizards and rats, and lays them at their door. “Here’s a rat that was running through my heart. What’s its name, and how do we deal with it?”
“Wine That Fills Our Cup” In the poem I refer to “wine that fills our cup.” Believe me, I like wine, and wine’s not a dead rat. Forget about rats and death. A poet — at least this poet — celebrates life in his expression of emotion. It is not despair that drives me, but hope. Even when speaking of negative, deadly emotions, there is an essential optimism: “This emotion is not my master. I discovered it, am revealing it, and by God’s grace I will see its cure. He will make me whole.”
Even the Wine of Lament I have been seeking lately to replace anger and bitterness with sadness and sorrow. In essence, to learn lament. Here’s what’s great about lament (at least as I understand it): it is sorrow felt and expressed in the presence of One who can change things, who will change things. When I move to lament, I move closer to hope. Wine is that which dulls, but also cheers.
THANKFUL FOR LEWIS (AND MACDONALD) One of the things C.S. Lewis does particularly well is to put things in perspective. As I write this reflection, I cannot name a particular text, but if you’ve read Lewis or his hero, MacDonald, you know that’s where I’ve been.
[written April 14] At a gasoline station this morning, the driver of the truck at the pump next to mine opened his door, and the truck’s alarm began blaring. I immediately thought, “I’d love to be where the loudest thing I hear’s a crow!” This poem is about the unpleasantness of distrust when provision and purpose are broken. It’s so much of our lives….
I continue to be amazed by seeds. On my walk today, I saw these rubbery seed pods I had never noticed, or felt before, and then realized they are the seed of grape hyacinths, that were in full bloom a few weeks ago. More importantly, there’s something I’m trying to come to terms with: in this fallen world, not all that I think of as loss really IS loss. [I’m getting around to posting this two months after writing that last sentence. It’s a sentence that I’ll have to come back to many a time, to see how much better I understand the nascent thought]
I HAVE NOTICED THAT… In Spring, artists are drawn to Creation.
Commentary
Back when I posted this on Facebook, I wrote, “Please subscribe to my blog, where I give the background of my simple poems like this one, and the more complex ones, the ones even I barely understand!”
“Simple poems like this one,” eh? So it’s over two months later, and I’m getting around to posting this on my blog. How simple was it? Do I remember what I was saying? Well, kinda….
I encountered this artist on Flagpole Hill, and asked her about her technique. Interestingly, she had a lot of dark areas on the canvas, areas whose eventual subject I could SEE, by looking where she was looking: the bright green grass, the shimmering green leaves. These, she began as dark blobs, explaining “I find it easier to start with the darkness as a base, and then apply the lighter colors.”
My poetic response is a reflection on how eternal life has barely begun (“canvas barely stretched”). We don’t understand yet how God will work beauty out of the painful and ugly experiences we now encounter. But we have hope, because we know Him to be a skillful artist.
A Skillful Artist I went home and looked up this artist (she sells in galleries). I like her finished work. What I saw that afternoon on Flagpole Hill was not a finished work. It is fair to say that if this is all I had seen, I might feel foolish admiring her “technique,” such as it is, in this unfinished work.
I’ve always had to find creative ways to cope with my short attention span. In seminary, one of my stranger tricks was to find good climbing trees in out-of-the-way places, climb up to a comfortable perch, and do reading assignments there.
On one such foray, I encountered a nest crowded with baby doves all eager to be fed. Figuring that my presence would make the Mama Dove nervous, I climbed back down and found another tree.
A couple of days later, I returned, armed with a camera instead of a book. I climbed up to where I’d seen the doves’ nest. IT WAS EMPTY.
My wish to photograph something beautiful was foiled. I began imagining what might have happened to the baby birds. They could not have developed quickly enough to leave the nest. Had a predator found them? Worse, had my brief presence resulted in the failure of that nest?
TWO SEQUELS
A year or two after the story above, I was about to graduate from seminary. By this time, I was tired of the studies. I was also tired of a handful of classmates who, though they were “big men on campus” seemed very foolish. Let me tell you a story about them….
One day, I was heading home from the seminary. On the tree-lined walk between Mosher Library and Stearns Hall, I encountered these — God forgive me — fools. They were taking turns throwing books up into one of the trees, trying to dislodge a nest. Need I say more?
Skip forward several decades. In semi-retirement now, I have had more time than ever to focus on the beauty of God’s creation. On one of my long walks, I found a nest on the ground. I took it home, and placed it carefully in the Japanese Yew just outside my home office. It was just a decoration.
This brings us up to a second sequel one week ago….
Looking out my office window, I was astonished and delighted to see a bird sitting in the nest I had placed. At first, seeing its tail sticking almost straight up as it sat in the nest, I thought it must be Christopher Wren or his wife. They often flit about, inspecting the architecture of my secret garden. But then, I caught sight of its beak, and knew it was Carnelia Cardinal.
The next day, poking my smartphone on a selfie stick into the Yew, I snuck a photograph of the nest. There were three speckled blue eggs!
I found a way to position a camera inside my office such that it had a clear view down to the nest. From that vantage point, behind the glass, I was able to film the mother cardinal returning to her nest after food “runs.” She would always chirp several times as she arrived, so I knew when to turn on the camera. Then she would settle into the nest, fluffing out her belly feathers to warm the eggs. And she’d sit there for hours, patiently warming her developing brood.
[In the video below, I think she may have been agitated by a mayfly. She usually just settled right in after two or three chirps]
Yesterday, when I drove home from an errand, I stopped by the Yew long enough to inspect the moss, violets, and wheat grass growing below. A blue egg was sitting on the ground. I turned it over, and found a gaping hole, with ants crawling in and out. Need I say more?
I went inside, and watched through the window for Carnelia to return. Four minutes. Eight minutes. She had never left the nest this long. An hour. She didn’t return. The nest had failed. There’s still one egg in the nest. By now, it has cooled, and died.
Now, in place of expectancy, there is sadness.
I’ve been here before. Last year, when our old cat Princess was dying, excruciating sadness introduced me to sorrow. In a moment, a small window opened, and I recognized that a pet’s death is partly my fault. Beauty is sullied, life is snuffed because I — in Adam — sin. [see “A Very Small Window, Open at Last“]
SORROW AND LAMENT: MY HEAVENLY FATHER’S ONGOING LESSON
Recently, I cried out for help. I am keenly aware of the sin of people I must answer to God for, even when their sin takes the form of vile accusations against godly friends. Knowing the sincere love of many acquaintances on Facebook, I wrote,
MAY SORROW REPLACE ANGER…. I need desperately to substitute sorrow for the anger I feel about people’s hurtful ways. If your prayer list is not too long, please add this.
Brad Hepp
One amazing friend, a counselor in Portland Oregon wrote this beautiful prayer, though she is still grieving the recent death of her beloved husband, Phil:
Heavenly Father, hear Brad’s heart cry to morph the deep response to other’s fear & confusion in the brokenness of life into mercy and compassion. Jesus, thank you for making a way for us, at such an extreme cost to Yourself, to know truth and embrace life as you intend it to be. Holy Spirit, thank you for your relentless work, moment by moment, handcrafting our way to imaging God’s character. I join Brad’s request today to respond to brokenness and pain with sorrow and grief. May each of us who yield to Your will find the courage to extend the grace You are so eager for us to know, first to ourselves, and then to others. Amen.
Debbie Johnson
Was Debbie’s prayer heard? Is it being answered? Does a cardinal nest fail for no reason? Or does it fail to remind me of the little I have learned about sorrow? The road behind me now is long. In contrast to all I know of beauty, this road is strewn with ugliness and failure. Is it a road to bitterness, or is it a road to lament?
Reflecting this morning on the responsibility church leaders have to make somewhat informed decisions about important matters, I thought back to Sunday School in 1965….
The teacher handed us line drawings to color in with crayons. Although I was five, I had never done that before. I looked at the mess my classmates were making with their crayons and said, “No thanks. I’ll wait until I’m old enough to stay in the lines!”
I’ve told this story before as an example of debilitating perfectionism. It is that. And I thank God that the perfectionism is dying off.
But here’s what MUST remain: a sense that I am not sufficient for the tasks I’m given. From that kernel of humility, I must cry out, “Help me! Forgive me!” I never was an expert.
I covered what used to be the walkway leading up to the glass door and windows of my office with moss. It’s a far more pleasant vista when I’m working than the concrete walkway ever used to be. Along with the moss that I “liberated” from stream banks, there’s a mass of wild violets, also “liberated” from vacant fields. Finally, there’s an area where wheat grass will soon be sprouting for our cat.
Invariably, my transplants bring in some weeds and even fungus. Last year, I watched what would happen if I left a big puffball mushroom to “do its thing.” Its “thing” turned out to be killing a section of the moss. So this year, I’m being diligent about removing fungus as soon as I notice it growing in amongst the moss.
WITCHES’ BUTTER One annoying invader is a small black, gelatinous fungus that really seems to enjoy the moist environment. If you look real close in the background image for the poem, you may be able to see some that remains after I spent 20 minutes picking it out this morning. If I’m not confusing it with another fungus, it goes by the names “Black Jelly Roll Fungus” and “Witches’ Butter.” Yuck! I like my butter yellow, not black.
PRAYER So, while picking out that fungus, my mind turned to invaders that have destroyed the lives of family and friends. Initially, what came to mind was cancers: brain cancer, bone cancer, etc. I prayed for friends who are still fighting this battle. But then, my mind turned to other invaders, like hatred and bitterness. Other acquaintances came to mind, and I prayed for them.
Prayer is an increasingly important part of my life. Soon after I became an elder in my church, it began to dawn on me that I will somehow be held accountable for the spiritual health of people in my care. In that day, I want to be able at least to say, “Lord, I asked for your intervention. There was far more than I could handle.”
Have confidence in your leaders and submit to their authority, because they keep watch over you as those who must give an account. Do this so that their work will be a joy, not a burden, for that would be of no benefit to you.
Hebrews 13:17
P.S. The dime was there in the photo initially because I was trying to identify the fungus, and I needed it for scale. Then, when I wrote the poem, I realized that the dime could be left in the photo… it reinforces the smallness of the plot. If I think long enough, I may realize there was some other, subconscious reason for leaving it in there. I hate to admit it, but I don’t always KNOW what I’m saying or why!
I saw this cedar growing in the crotch of a liveoak in front of Lakepointe Church. The poem is not about that church. But it does issue from thinking about churches. Every time a new church is planted, there are certain goals that the church planters are trying to achieve. While they may state a fine-sounding church “mission,” there is sometimes what Robert Schnase refers to as a “shadow mission,” the REAL mission of the church. If that shadow mission is some piece of idolatry like “having a form of worship that is comfortable to us,” the church may initially attract a lot of like-minded idolaters. Thus, it may grow rapidly. But such a mission can only carry the church so far; it contains the seed of its own eventual failure. A dedication to comfort rules out the willingness to change when change becomes necessary. There are probably as many “shadow missions” as there are sinners. I have just described one I see in myself.
As I was thinking about that, I remembered the photo above. Then I knew that the baby cedar may seem attractive in its current location, but it’s doomed to failure. The “shadow mission” of having “altitude” is no use to a cedar. As any cedar-burning Texas rancher will tell you, what cedars do exceptionally well is not to grow tall, but to send roots deep down into hard ground and draw up water for themselves, water that the ranchers need for other purposes! And so, they chop them down, and burn them.
MORE BROADLY, BECAUSE GOD IS MERCIFUL It isn’t sad when cedars miss their purpose in life. But how about us? What if we are wasting our strength on things that won’t last? Who will save us from such a bad investment? The poem concludes by pointing to the mercy of humbling, of being brought low. This seems to be what James had in mind in his powerful letter:
9Let the lowly brother boast in his exaltation, 10and the rich in his humiliation, because like a flower of the grass he will pass away.
James 1:9-10 (ESV)
[September 4, 2021 Update]: Here’s a picture I took 9 months later, when folly gave birth to death:
In my nightmare last night, it was college all over again. I was exhausted, and couldn’t keep up with the lectures. A group of professors started hassling me about my inattentiveness. It made me mad! One professor in particular was busting my chops. In the dream, I was sprawling over a desk, lethargic but angry. With every ounce of strength, I dragged myself off the desk to go over and strike him.
Wham!
Suddenly I woke up. My face had struck the nightstand a foot below my pillow. Susan cried out “Brad! Are you okay?” She was worried. But when she heard the nightmare, and figured out I wasn’t injured, she couldn’t stop laughing.When I landed face-first on the nightstand, the blow was softened by a pile of junk. Had I been a neat freak, I might have died. So there! Let that be a lesson.
BACKGROUND Recently, I have been trying to imagine what it might look like to be in a church that welcomes people from all kinds of backgrounds. Would I be willing to give up my comfort for their sake? What if they’re REALLY different? What if their politics are different than mine, different than the politics of most others in the church? Would we be able to keep things in perspective, or would we chase them off because their politics make them feel like pariahs?
Which is more valuable: a soul, or my opinion?
I was once part of a church plant where my chief motivation was comfort: I wanted to be comfortable with the style of worship, and the kind of people I’d be worshipping with. Now, I recognize comfort as an idol. Doubtless, I retain — and am even now creating — other idols, things that are more important than God’s glory. May He have mercy on me.
SEE THE DARK IRONY? I’m not smart enough to have intended the searing irony in the next-to-last line. “Like hell” was drawn lightly from recent events. But there is a reality darker than current darkness, infinitely more consequential than current comfort.
THE PHOTOGRAPH The background photo is of St. John’s Episcopal Church, which I pass by on my walks from home to Flag Pole Hill. One evening, the clouds were threatening. I confess: “HDR Scape” in Snapseed accentuated the drama. Do I feel bad about editing a photo? Not in the least…. It’s part of artistic expression. I’m not a mimeograph!
[first published June 25, 2020] On long walks recently, I have listened to Ezekiel and Jeremiah. They cover a time of turmoil in Israel. I’m thinking about how both prophets handled a proverb that was apparently popular at the time: “The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.” Some quote the prophets’ apparent abrogation of that parable in a future time as reason for Christians now to not be concerned about the sins of our ancestors or of our surrounding culture. But I have my doubts. As I wrote a friend, it seems we must carefully delineate sin, responsibility, guilt, and consequences. That we are forgiven in Jesus Christ is not license to continue in the ugliness of sin. It is certainly a poor reason to miss out on the beauty that results from obedience! THE PHOTO: mustang grapes I found and tasted on my walks.
This poem is a bit of (hopefully) sanctified imagination. Please don’t take it as a theological statement! However, if it fires up some thoughts you’d like to discuss, let’s do so… either privately via my contact form, or more publicly, with the comments form below.
When I played hooky back in college, it was almost always in the student center workshop. This is a music box I made for Grandma one of those delicious days.
[first published June 29, 2020] Once, when I was in my mid-twenties, I tried to publicly shame one of the elders of my church. At the time, I thought I was successful: I really put that guy in his place!
Decades passed. Older, and slightly wiser, I myself served as an elder. This time, I watched another young man do what I had done. He resented that the church leadership had “failed” to honor him. So he wrote us an email, slamming us for our bad decision. But there’s more…. He also sent the email to a couple dozen other church members. Did his email convince us that we should have honored him in the first place? Of course not! Rather, it confirmed our earlier judgment. He wasn’t ready for honor. [Let’s hope by now he IS ready]
Back to the action of stupid young Bradley…. When I look back now on that episode in my twenties, it’s clear that what I perceived then as a “success” was one of my worst-ever failures. What irony!
Note: I wrote this after watching a young lady eviscerate a church elder on Facebook. In my opinion, he didn’t deserve her rebuke AT ALL. She had used the word “irony,” so I picked up on that word and used it in hopes that she would read MY post and remember what she had said.
[published July 2, 2020] Like most people, I have lived much of my life in one bubble or another, isolated from the beauty and wisdom of others’ perspectives. The bubble is not always intentional. But breaking out of it takes BEING intentional. One of the best things I have done for myself over the past two years is to reach out to black brothers and sisters in Christ and add them to my Facebook feed.* In this divisive time, that is helping me negotiate the intersection of Christianity and culture far more productively than I was able to before. It’s part of a bigger initiative to surround myself with wise voices and then not drive them off with my stupidity (which has happened once or twice).
ABOUT THAT STUPIDITY It’s easy to say stupid things and get by with it when your audience are all like-minded or share your sub-culture. But when you have to consider that what you write may be read by a very smart, spiritually mature brother or sister from another culture, or another perspective, it forces thoughtfulness. It forces THOUGHT.
*and then foster the friendship outside of social media (Image below by ArtTower from Pixabay)
[originally published July 25, 2020] A friend from way back (Scott Thibaut) sent me one of his poems this morning. Its self-awareness, honesty, and imagery gave me goosebumps. We talked about honesty. I wrote him what’s pictured below.
BUT THERE’S MORE When we start recognizing our deep-seated character flaws late in life, the result is not merely sorrow. As the Holy Spirit unearths such things, there is tremendous hope! Perhaps, with the removal of this impediment, I can run, maybe even fly. To God, the Potter we can cry with Browning,
So, take and use Thy work: Amend what flaws may lurk, What strain o’ the stuff, what warpings past the aim! My times be in Thy hand! Perfect the cup as planned! Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!
[written January 11, 2021] In recent months, I have been pursuing a theory that selfishness is an underlying motive in many of our sinful attitudes and actions. Discovering an adamant core of selfishness in myself was revolutionary.
But selfishness, greedy as it is, does not account for everything. I am noticing how it joins forces with deep-seated fear of suffering. Think of how often now we hear Christians expressing concern over what they perceive as rising persecution (and presumably its attendant suffering). How do they deal with this fear? Do they — do we — say, “As a follower of Jesus, I expect suffering, and will not run away from it?” I’m afraid there’s very little of that. Instead, we see many in the Church run to the shelter of whatever political ideology seems most likely to insure their safety, in the process giving aid and comfort to the selfishness that drives others to that ideology. Unfortunately, we tend to become like our companions. If our companions are driven by selfishness, we’ll tend to become more selfish. Thus, the deep motives feed each other [I need to work out this relationship a little better].
Am I saying that there’s another political ideology out there that IS safe harbor, that is driven by pure motives? ABSOLUTELY NOT! Rather, I think we must hold very lightly any association we have with a particular spot on the political spectrum. For Christians, marching orders must come from Christ, not from the polarized cow patties of politics.
[written January 14, 2021] One of my jobs as a web designer is to NOTICE how I’m responding to design, and to discern how others respond. It’s a useful habit.
Every now and then, I wisely observe how other things affect me. In High School, I became very aware of the effect different genres of music had on my ability to do homework. Since I wanted to keep my options open by making good grades, I sometimes listened to rock (good for math), but increasingly listened to classical or even the despised “easy listening” offerings. Many a night, I was still reading or writing as the radio station signed off with “Stardust” sung by Nat King Cole: “And now the purple dusk of twilight time Steals across the meadows of my heart….”
About two years ago, I realized the effect talk radio was having on me: it stirred up anger. I could drop in on a 3-hour show at any point, and know what was being said — the repetition is really astounding. That pounding repetition of outrage from the radio personalities would immediately echo in my mind, and predictable feelings of outrage would swirl up within me.
I have gotten away from listening to talk radio, and it has made a huge difference in my ability to think straight, to contemplate GOOD things, to see beauty, to concentrate on what matters for eternity. Adrenaline may be good for “fight or flight,” but it’s lousy for loveliness and delight (see related post).
Watch over your heart with all diligence, For from it flow the springs of life.
I wrote this little poem partly as a sermon to myself. Here’s how I prefaced it on Facebook:
SINCE WE’RE SCROLLING… I don’t want to waste this short lifetime, do you? And yet, I devote hours to things that won’t matter in eternity. Meanwhile, there are incredible riches — within reach — that I leave untouched, unexplored.
THE RESULT? My very speech is impoverished.
you also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house to be a holy priesthood, offering spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ. 1 Peter 2:5 NIV https://1peter.bible/1-peter-2-5
If anyone speaks, they should do so as one who speaks the very words of God. If anyone serves, they should do so with the strength God provides, so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ. To him be the glory and the power for ever and ever. Amen. 1 Peter 4:11 NIV https://1peter.bible/1-peter-4-11
Let the message of Christ dwell among you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts. Colossians 3:16 NIV https://colossians.bible/colossians-3-16
And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him. Colossians 3:17 NIV https://colossians.bible/colossians-3-17
I wish I could remember the content of a fellow student’s prayer at the beginning of a seminary class some 35 years ago. It was almost other-worldly in its simple sincerity. One had the sense, “This guy talks a lot with God!” Hearing that brother — who was NOT a “big man on campus” — forever set my benchmark for public prayer. I’ve heard plenty of skillful, smooth, inspiring prayers since, but none that moved me so. Where is that guy serving now? In obscurity? Do people still react to his prayer with arched eyebrows, saying, “I want THAT kind of relationship with God”? I sure hope so. God knows.
A photo of Bernie Sanders sitting at the Presidential Inauguration on January 20, 2021 made its way into thousands of Photoshop memes on social media. Here are my three contributions:
Next, I thought of one of my favorite images: Tutanbernie
Finally, one of my friends asked on Facebook if there are “Any posts today that are NOT shared pictures of Bernie?” This was all I had, a pretty mountain picture:
You may recognize the background shot from other recent posts. It comes from a 2017 climb of Mount Belford. I used this in my post “Wobbly at the Immense.“
THE MUSICAL ARRANGEMENT When I was assigned a new roommate in college, they installed an old wooden desk for him before he arrived. Since I was building music boxes at the time, I took one of the movements and did my own installation…. I hid the movement in the back of the desk and arranged for it to start playing whenever he opened a desk drawer. For some reason, that guy didn’t last very long. I don’t even remember his name. Ask me sometime what happened when I took him to church with me. [see my reply to Don Regier below, when he did just that]
LONG-WINDED I was working as an all-night security guard at that time. Staying awake for classes or church services was a real challenge. So there we were — Whatshisname and me — on one of the front pews. I was employing my various surreptitious stay-awake techniques. Just before a long pastoral prayer, I took a big gulp of air, hoping the physical effort of holding that breath would keep me awake. It didn’t. Somewhere during that long pastoral prayer, I relaxed. Seconds later I woke up to a weird sound. It was me! The air was coming out in an involuntary low moan. Now mind you, this was Grace Bible Church, where low moans are rarely ever heard (at least not back in those days). I don’t recall what happened next. Nor do I recall whether this was before or after Ralph Busby invited me to sit in on elder meetings.
One of my writer friends doesn’t suffer fools gladly. When someone wrote a long, rambling response to one of his posts, he wrote back, “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about…. I’m completely lost here.” I laughed at his honesty, and had to agree. Many words don’t meaning make.
EVEN IF I’M WRONG in what I wrote to a respected theologian,* I urge YOU to consider what your current concerns and activities have to do with eternity. Are you consumed now with things that won’t matter then?
*The theologian wrote me back affirming what I had written, with some refining remarks.
This is the stream that runs down from Norbuck Park and feeds into White Rock Creek before it enters White Rock Lake. I pass by this on my frequent walks over to Flagpole Hill. One day, I stopped, sat down on the bridge, and started filming. For interest, I tossed pebbles into the stream. Back home, I turned the footage upside down and added music in the InShot app (on Google Play; on the App Store). There’s something really satisfying about creating graphics and tweaking videos on my phone. Yes, I have the full Adobe Creative Suite on my workstation, but it’s just fun to see how far I can push the smartphone.
About five miles into my walk today, I suddenly got all wobbly. In my ear, Sir Kenneth Branagh was reading “The Magician’s Nephew,” by C. S. Lewis. Maybe you remember what happens in that book. I had forgotten. Shhh… don’t give it away.
Blessed by a spotty memory of books I read long ago, and verses I read this morning, I was led to a mountainside. There, in the company of our older Brother, I imagined what it was like in the beginning, when…
The “walk” I referred to above was just one of my around-town hikes. But the background photo is one I took from high camp on a climb of Mount Belford in 2017. There were several great photo opportunities on that climb. See, for example this PHOTOSPHERE (opens in a new tab). Also, I used a photo taken by Peter Beverage on that climb as the background for my poem “Job’s One Good Friend” (also opens in a new tab).
A friend gave me grape vines that initially seemed to be doing well. I saw many buds, even healthy growth. And then they all died. Increasingly, I understand: Pray. The only real, long-term failure is ignoring our Father in Heaven.
MEA DUFUS CULPA I know a man who goes away from some conversations having said too much and listened too little. If you know me, you know him too . [publishing this at a time when our nation is paying for people being too proud to listen]
My friend Scott Thibaut posted an insightful comment:
It’s nice to read a poem that recaps the song of Simeon in six lines.
[August 15, 2021 Note] I recently used this poem to illustrate another post:
NEVER TOO OLD TO GROW In my 60s, I don’t expect big career developments. But how depressing would it be if I don’t make major headway in spiritual/emotional growth in this decade? Fortunately, I’m surrounded by people who help me in this, including a professional counselor, immediate family who keep me honest, and a wise friend who regularly goes for long walks with me. Is growth painful? Maybe, but not as painful as a long slow slide into futility.
The background image
The background image is part of a photo I took of the Wetmore Valley July 21, 2004. I was staying with my family at Horn Creek Family Camp. In the late afternoon, after suppers, I’d go out driving with the family, as that was the magical time when light was especially interesting and animals were venturing out from the woods.
DON’T HATE ME FOR THIS Almost every day, I take an afternoon nap while listening to music. I try hard then to let my imagination wander free. Often, I think of other artists, and the grasp they have of beauty. I, too, have known beauty. Someday, all of us who know the Author of beauty will have unbridled joy in His creation. Nap time is a good time to savor that hope. In Him, we rest.
All day, I asked myself if I should refine a poem I tossed off earlier that morning. This struggle reminds me of when I was a teenage perfectionist, and the head cook told me to stop mixing the pancake batter already.
Well, it turns out that I did NOT refine the poem in question, partly because the poem was one of my most popular ever: “Let The Dishes Soak.” I ran it by another poet, and we both saw its weaknesses, but part of its strength was surely the immediacy — words that someone might speak on the spur of a loving moment.
. [publishing this at a time when our nation is paying for people being too proud to listen]
