Strength is a word that has more sides than a domino. Like all words, the understanding comes from interpretation. Strength means different things to different people. What does it mean to be strong? I've read the bible over and over and I find so many different shows of strength.
Strength is saying, "NO," to the voice in your own head that says, "Go ahead. It won't hurt."
Strength is lifting a weight that everyone says you couldn't.
Strength is saying to someone, "you are that man!" Even if the hearer is a king.
Strength is wrestling, getting beat, and dealing with the limp.
Strength is calling wrongs what they are.
Strength is telling someone, "wherever you go I will go."
Strength is feeling compassion so much it makes your gut hurt.
Strength is realizing everybody's got something to deal with, and nobody's normal.
Strength is running to a prodigal son.
Strength is looking at a giant and coming at him with the only five rocks you've got.
Strength is building a boat in a desert because God said so.
Strength is a soldier who knows each day is gift.
Strength is praying so hard that you sweat blood and tears over something you do not want to do, but do it anyway
Strength is forgiving. It's confronting. It's loving.
The greatest strength is one who would stretch out his arms so wide, bleed, thirst, and hurt. But those arms were stretched out so wide that Jesus could not only hang on a cross, but wrap those arms around even those of us who spit at him.
True strength can be summed up in one name, "Jesus."
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
You Can't Unboil an Egg
A baby's born.
His name is chosen and put on a bracelet, then on a birth certificate.
That name means the hope of the parents, and the last name is the one that makes that unknown little person theirs. Thank God for parents like mine who gave tons of sleepless nights, prayers, cares, and hopes to that little one.
It takes a while, like boiling an egg, but then the baby becomes a toddler and a personality starts to take shape. By the time the egg takes shape he has an identity and we call him a kid.
That kid breaks bones, talks back, and learns he doesn't have to give a damn about anything that doesn't matter to him, and grabs on to things that matter the most to him. The kid starts to make the ones who care proud and breaks their hearts all at the same time. He just doesn't realize what he's doing yet. He just keeps jumping his bike off ramps, playing ball, and going to school.
Pretty soon, he's a teenager before you can imagine that he could get that many years on him. The teenager starts to jump bigger ramps, breaking more bones and hearts caring more and less about those and that which matters, yet he still doesn't get the grip on what and why but at least thank God he's still around scars and all. The hope is that he'll know enough about what he's seen and heard to stay true to what makes the difference. That's a parent's hope still printed on that birth certificate.
Before anyone notices the teenager turns into a hard-boiled egg, hell bent on being his own person with no way to stop him. You can't unboil an egg. He makes decisions that can't be unmade, says words that can't be unsaid, and does stuff. Some are proud moments like graduations, Military pinning ceremonies, weddings, reconciliations, you name it. But still there are ramps to be jumped, scars to be made, and ball to be played. It doesn't matter that the one who was named in a nursery isn't owned by the arms that once held him, the arms still welcome him. Good or bad.
Then that thing turns into a full-blown adult. Whatever, "adult," means. Grown up is a term so relative you can't quantify it by any means no matter how hard you try. But there's still hope your grown up will grow up. There's still hope for that little baby grown to be a bigger baby in the eyes of the one who first saw him.
I looked at my birth certificate for a long time yesterday wondering what my Mom and Dad thought and hoped when they chose that name of mine and attached their name to it. I can't imagine. I just know they loved me through scars, jumps, and missed shots. I wish every little one born could have my experiences, as much as I hope my own little ones don't have many of the experiences I chose in my life. Yet still, they'll jump their own ramps, receive their own scars, and choose their own ways. They'll learn, relearn, and relearn. I guess that's called life. Hopefully, I've given them at least a third of the lessons I got, because you can't unboil the water.
When they're grown-up, whatever that means, I hope they'll be able to say what I can say today. Whatever they've done, and wherever they've been. Whatever road they've chosen and whenever dead ends derailed them.
Thanks Mom and Dad, I sure do love you.
I don't write sermons anymore, but this would've been one I should've.
His name is chosen and put on a bracelet, then on a birth certificate.
That name means the hope of the parents, and the last name is the one that makes that unknown little person theirs. Thank God for parents like mine who gave tons of sleepless nights, prayers, cares, and hopes to that little one.
It takes a while, like boiling an egg, but then the baby becomes a toddler and a personality starts to take shape. By the time the egg takes shape he has an identity and we call him a kid.
That kid breaks bones, talks back, and learns he doesn't have to give a damn about anything that doesn't matter to him, and grabs on to things that matter the most to him. The kid starts to make the ones who care proud and breaks their hearts all at the same time. He just doesn't realize what he's doing yet. He just keeps jumping his bike off ramps, playing ball, and going to school.
Pretty soon, he's a teenager before you can imagine that he could get that many years on him. The teenager starts to jump bigger ramps, breaking more bones and hearts caring more and less about those and that which matters, yet he still doesn't get the grip on what and why but at least thank God he's still around scars and all. The hope is that he'll know enough about what he's seen and heard to stay true to what makes the difference. That's a parent's hope still printed on that birth certificate.
Before anyone notices the teenager turns into a hard-boiled egg, hell bent on being his own person with no way to stop him. You can't unboil an egg. He makes decisions that can't be unmade, says words that can't be unsaid, and does stuff. Some are proud moments like graduations, Military pinning ceremonies, weddings, reconciliations, you name it. But still there are ramps to be jumped, scars to be made, and ball to be played. It doesn't matter that the one who was named in a nursery isn't owned by the arms that once held him, the arms still welcome him. Good or bad.
Then that thing turns into a full-blown adult. Whatever, "adult," means. Grown up is a term so relative you can't quantify it by any means no matter how hard you try. But there's still hope your grown up will grow up. There's still hope for that little baby grown to be a bigger baby in the eyes of the one who first saw him.
I looked at my birth certificate for a long time yesterday wondering what my Mom and Dad thought and hoped when they chose that name of mine and attached their name to it. I can't imagine. I just know they loved me through scars, jumps, and missed shots. I wish every little one born could have my experiences, as much as I hope my own little ones don't have many of the experiences I chose in my life. Yet still, they'll jump their own ramps, receive their own scars, and choose their own ways. They'll learn, relearn, and relearn. I guess that's called life. Hopefully, I've given them at least a third of the lessons I got, because you can't unboil the water.
When they're grown-up, whatever that means, I hope they'll be able to say what I can say today. Whatever they've done, and wherever they've been. Whatever road they've chosen and whenever dead ends derailed them.
Thanks Mom and Dad, I sure do love you.
I don't write sermons anymore, but this would've been one I should've.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Eggs, Sliced Tomatoes, Cantaloupe, Bacon, and Coffee
The best breakfast is made out of eggs, sliced tomatoes, cantaloupe, bacon, and coffee. There should always be a rode hard, put up wet waitress who's working hard because she has to and needs a big tip, a smile, and a retort to all her barbs.
I've always loved and hated food. I've run thousands of miles to get rid of the calories until I read a Gatorade bottle that said calories were, "energy." Counselors have told me that food fills the hole in the soul, I just figured it filled the whole of the belly. I think I'm more right than they were.
But the best breakfasts are the ones filled with eggs, sliced tomatoes, cantaloupe, bacon, and a gallon of coffee with friends. The friends are the ones who made the rest worth it. Breakfast is the time of day when the world is new again, the day before got wiped out by the night, and friends will talk about anything, everything, and nothing. They'll tell bad jokes, argue about politics and religion, and forget it all before the plates are cleared.
Menudo is a terrible breakfast unless Sandra Chavarrhia makes it, because she'll just smile and listen to boys be boys slurping up horrific cow guts. But what makes it a good breakfast is the time laughter breaks up the air, and the day's still new. Nobody eats breakfast feeling sorry for themselves unless they got it through a window in a greasy paper sack filled with ketchup packets.
Breakfast always starts with a prayer and ends with handshakes. Eggs, sliced tomatoes, cantaloupe, bacon, and coffee fill the belly, but it's the talks that fill the heart.
I've always loved and hated food. I've run thousands of miles to get rid of the calories until I read a Gatorade bottle that said calories were, "energy." Counselors have told me that food fills the hole in the soul, I just figured it filled the whole of the belly. I think I'm more right than they were.
But the best breakfasts are the ones filled with eggs, sliced tomatoes, cantaloupe, bacon, and a gallon of coffee with friends. The friends are the ones who made the rest worth it. Breakfast is the time of day when the world is new again, the day before got wiped out by the night, and friends will talk about anything, everything, and nothing. They'll tell bad jokes, argue about politics and religion, and forget it all before the plates are cleared.
Menudo is a terrible breakfast unless Sandra Chavarrhia makes it, because she'll just smile and listen to boys be boys slurping up horrific cow guts. But what makes it a good breakfast is the time laughter breaks up the air, and the day's still new. Nobody eats breakfast feeling sorry for themselves unless they got it through a window in a greasy paper sack filled with ketchup packets.
Breakfast always starts with a prayer and ends with handshakes. Eggs, sliced tomatoes, cantaloupe, bacon, and coffee fill the belly, but it's the talks that fill the heart.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Sometimes
When you've said all you have to say. Seen all you thought you needed to see. Heard all you needed to hear. I call it, "Sometimes," time.
Because, sometimes you have something more to say, the better two choices are, "I love you," and, "I'm sorry." But you still have somebody who wants to hear from you. They love the sound of your voice, and what you might have to offer. They even might need your wisdom, and contrary to popular opinion, wisdom's the greatest gift, just ask ol' King Solomon.
Sometimes, we haven't seen the best yet. I figure there's bigger and better things to see since my baby girl already sang at the Meyerson Symphony Center, and my little man already played football at Cowboys Stadium. I think they'll see big things, and I hope to see them with them. Sometimes we wish we could go back and make things different about what we saw. We can't. We just have to see what's in front of us, and look up and thank The One who let's us see.
Sometimes, we haven't been all the places we need to go. Not like on a to-do list, but like on a, "TO GO!," list. The places we need to go aren't the fanciest cities in the biggest places. Sometimes the, "to go," places are Waffle House with somebody you don't particularly want to talk to, but, you're all they got. Sometimes the to go line is at the store with somebody who needs you to buy them a loaf of bread and not lecture them. Sometimes, all the time, there's somewhere to go. It's not the buildings, or the mountains, or the seas, that make them places to go. It's the people, they're the best.
I think there's a reason Jesus always said, "let him who has ears to hear." I'd translate it this way, "just listen you hard-headed thing you Clint." We need to listen to the loud, quiet, and in-between voices that continue to shape us on the anvil of life. The Master is not finished with us until he put's us up. That banging sound is Him, hammering us into shape, knocking off our rough edges, and polishing us up.
Sometimes...
Because, sometimes you have something more to say, the better two choices are, "I love you," and, "I'm sorry." But you still have somebody who wants to hear from you. They love the sound of your voice, and what you might have to offer. They even might need your wisdom, and contrary to popular opinion, wisdom's the greatest gift, just ask ol' King Solomon.
Sometimes, we haven't seen the best yet. I figure there's bigger and better things to see since my baby girl already sang at the Meyerson Symphony Center, and my little man already played football at Cowboys Stadium. I think they'll see big things, and I hope to see them with them. Sometimes we wish we could go back and make things different about what we saw. We can't. We just have to see what's in front of us, and look up and thank The One who let's us see.
Sometimes, we haven't been all the places we need to go. Not like on a to-do list, but like on a, "TO GO!," list. The places we need to go aren't the fanciest cities in the biggest places. Sometimes the, "to go," places are Waffle House with somebody you don't particularly want to talk to, but, you're all they got. Sometimes the to go line is at the store with somebody who needs you to buy them a loaf of bread and not lecture them. Sometimes, all the time, there's somewhere to go. It's not the buildings, or the mountains, or the seas, that make them places to go. It's the people, they're the best.
I think there's a reason Jesus always said, "let him who has ears to hear." I'd translate it this way, "just listen you hard-headed thing you Clint." We need to listen to the loud, quiet, and in-between voices that continue to shape us on the anvil of life. The Master is not finished with us until he put's us up. That banging sound is Him, hammering us into shape, knocking off our rough edges, and polishing us up.
Sometimes...
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Nerfherding
Friends are funny things. We learned that in a game I named, "Nerfherding." I didn't know why I named it such, but I reckon it was because of the concept of the game.
We would take a red Nerf ball and throw it in the air and the one who could hold on to it for at least, "Ten Mississipp," would win. We'd give grace to the one who couldn't count to Mississippi without getting tackled, hit, or otherwise knocked sideways. He'd get to win that round. Dumbest dadgummed game I could've ever made up. But we thought it was fun.
We made up some simple rules:
1. No eye gouging.
2. No crotch punching.
3. No crying.
4. Always start each match with a prayer... just in case.
I can't count the number of times we ended up in a full fledged fight over the ball ignoring every rule we instituted, but there were no referees, just us.
So why in the world do I write about the dumbest game ever? it taught me grown up rules.
1. If you're going to grab the ball, you better know what you're going to do next.
2. When someone knocks the hell out of you, it was at your invitation.
3. No crying.
4. Always start the match with a prayer, not in case, but because God still listens to fools.
5. The best friends sit around after whipping each other and laugh.
I write this because we all grew up, sort of, and still we're the best, "Nerfherding," friends there ever were. A lawyer, a Navy, "SEAL," turned Deputy, a restaurant running phenomenon, and, well, me.
Thank you boys.
We would take a red Nerf ball and throw it in the air and the one who could hold on to it for at least, "Ten Mississipp," would win. We'd give grace to the one who couldn't count to Mississippi without getting tackled, hit, or otherwise knocked sideways. He'd get to win that round. Dumbest dadgummed game I could've ever made up. But we thought it was fun.
We made up some simple rules:
1. No eye gouging.
2. No crotch punching.
3. No crying.
4. Always start each match with a prayer... just in case.
I can't count the number of times we ended up in a full fledged fight over the ball ignoring every rule we instituted, but there were no referees, just us.
So why in the world do I write about the dumbest game ever? it taught me grown up rules.
1. If you're going to grab the ball, you better know what you're going to do next.
2. When someone knocks the hell out of you, it was at your invitation.
3. No crying.
4. Always start the match with a prayer, not in case, but because God still listens to fools.
5. The best friends sit around after whipping each other and laugh.
I write this because we all grew up, sort of, and still we're the best, "Nerfherding," friends there ever were. A lawyer, a Navy, "SEAL," turned Deputy, a restaurant running phenomenon, and, well, me.
Thank you boys.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)