"but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.
they will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint."
~Isaiah 40:31 (NIV)
Too many times we think that a life of faith is one that is meant to make us happy, saturated with worry free lives and a new blessing is just around the corner. If we pray the right prayer, use the right words, go to the church house and worship with all our might. But I see life as less like a road, and more like the sea, the middle of the ocean when all that can be seen is the water surrounding us and no markers or objects at which to aim at times. It is in those times that we understand there is only one way to make such a trip through this temporary voyage. Some find diversion to forget the mindless floating, others panic, still others abandon the journey and delve deeply into an abyss seemingly impenetrable by anyone or anything.
I took a run/walk along a strange trail not too long ago. I was in unfamiliar territory, well away from any beaten paths that provide the normal, already experienced, comfortable, and flat trip that leads me home each time. This time I was lost, perhaps a run/walk/ramble that was preparing me for a time in life where my life raft was bobbing on the waters of life in which there were no recognizable markers for which to aim. The time spent was longer than I had anticipated, but the arrival back to my truck that would lead me home was sweeter than the usual ending. In the mystery of being lost, finding my home was ever sweeter. Reminding me of the words that I have sung many times, "I once was lost, but now I am found, was blind but now I see."
Later that evening in the quiet moment upstairs in my study I wrote these words about the exhausting travel I had endured that day, and how it resembles living day to day to day.
In the bliss of knowing God, and better yet being known by Him,
we sometimes soar in the ecstatic experience of undeserved God given grace.
As the sun makes way higher above from the place where he once laid low,
the darkness is gone, the space filled with cool air becomes filled with
exhausting heat.
Morning is over, the rays of the day embolden the song of birds and the
sound of my ever slowing steps and sounds of the unseen.
The steps slow to a walk and the confusion of where I am creates confusion,
but the sky is still blue and each tree looks the same as the last.
No longer soaring as at the beginning, and the run has caused my weariness.
It is the cadence of continual motion that gives energy for life,
Knowing that with God we may soar, or run, but in the uphill traverse,
we slow to a walk as our strength is renewed and our hearts are filled.
The gait matters not, only our direction.
We are never lost when we orient ourselves as we travel toward the Son.
The Son of God, who soared, ran, and walked with us in every footprint
left on even the strangest of paths.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Do You Hear What I Hear?
"The invitation to a religious discourse is quite simply as follows: 'Come hither all ye who labor and are heavy laden' --and the discourse presupposes that all are sufferers, aye, that all ought to be. The speaker is not to go down among his audience and pick out one, if there be such a one, and say to him: 'No, you are altogether too fortunate to need my address,' for when such a thing is heard from the mouth of a religious speaker it ought to be made to sound like the most biting irony. The distinction between fortunate and unfortunate human beings is merely a jest, and therefore the speaker should say: 'We are all sufferers, but what we strive for is to be glad in the midst of our suffering; there sits the fortunate man for whom everything, literally everything, succeeds as in a fairy tale, but woe unto him if he is not a sufferer."
~Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855)
Kierkegaard was no stranger to true suffering. Born to a devout Lutheran farmer and lived the life of a poor farmers son. He later succeeded in business, but suffered the death of his wife and five of his children. He knew about that which he wrote.
As I read this passage I imagined how many of us sit in the pew listening to the proclaimer in the pulpit spin his message as if on a loom and think of the many people who needed to hear the sermon being spoken. Time after time, I've heard a congregant say, "I wish my brother/sister/husband/wife/mother/father/friend/and on and on could've heard what you said this morning," while politely shaking hands and simultaneously shaking off any meaning pertaining to him or herself about what was spoken.
Sitting in a pew or a folding chair, on the floor or upon a rock around a crackling fire, hearing the word of God we often measure ourselves with the other souls surrounding us and see those who, "need," to hear what is being said, while disallowing the words to soak into our own souls knowing fully that in our human condition we all possess the same predicament, life.
While others may with arms crossed bemoan that they suffer and are more heavy laden than any other beings surrounding them. Often envying or even cursing, sometimes aloud, the fortune of others that seems to be the antithesis of their own miserable existence on this big ball we call earth.
In the realization that we all are sufferers of the same condition. Sin that leads to death. Our suit may be clean and pressed, or our worn jeans dirty and in need of a bathing, that matters not. We suffer from the condition that leads us to pray as Jesus taught us how to pray that we be led not into temptation but delivered from evil and our own proclivities to fulfill the gaps of our lives with the stuff of earth that doesn't satisfy the hunger within us.
When we gather as believers and know that the neighbor beside us, behind us, or the back of the head we see three rows ahead of us is suffering differently from us, but suffering just as we are. And the gathering is to commune with others who know that the only answer is our Savior. From the one wearing the best clothes she could find who knows that she is being whispered about over the coffee urn to the most revered saint conservatively clad in the congregation, each one is a needy sufferer who must reach for his or her Savior with the knowledge, not only intellectually, but the faith within his or her heart that the Savior already reached and suffered first.
~Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855)
Kierkegaard was no stranger to true suffering. Born to a devout Lutheran farmer and lived the life of a poor farmers son. He later succeeded in business, but suffered the death of his wife and five of his children. He knew about that which he wrote.
As I read this passage I imagined how many of us sit in the pew listening to the proclaimer in the pulpit spin his message as if on a loom and think of the many people who needed to hear the sermon being spoken. Time after time, I've heard a congregant say, "I wish my brother/sister/husband/wife/mother/father/friend/and on and on could've heard what you said this morning," while politely shaking hands and simultaneously shaking off any meaning pertaining to him or herself about what was spoken.
Sitting in a pew or a folding chair, on the floor or upon a rock around a crackling fire, hearing the word of God we often measure ourselves with the other souls surrounding us and see those who, "need," to hear what is being said, while disallowing the words to soak into our own souls knowing fully that in our human condition we all possess the same predicament, life.
While others may with arms crossed bemoan that they suffer and are more heavy laden than any other beings surrounding them. Often envying or even cursing, sometimes aloud, the fortune of others that seems to be the antithesis of their own miserable existence on this big ball we call earth.
In the realization that we all are sufferers of the same condition. Sin that leads to death. Our suit may be clean and pressed, or our worn jeans dirty and in need of a bathing, that matters not. We suffer from the condition that leads us to pray as Jesus taught us how to pray that we be led not into temptation but delivered from evil and our own proclivities to fulfill the gaps of our lives with the stuff of earth that doesn't satisfy the hunger within us.
When we gather as believers and know that the neighbor beside us, behind us, or the back of the head we see three rows ahead of us is suffering differently from us, but suffering just as we are. And the gathering is to commune with others who know that the only answer is our Savior. From the one wearing the best clothes she could find who knows that she is being whispered about over the coffee urn to the most revered saint conservatively clad in the congregation, each one is a needy sufferer who must reach for his or her Savior with the knowledge, not only intellectually, but the faith within his or her heart that the Savior already reached and suffered first.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Words
"Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality." ~Edgar Allan Poe
A few years ago I found an interesting short piece on the internet titled, "10 Things You Should Never Say to a Guy." The title intrigued me, and the writing was brief so I looked through it and saw an amusing glimpse of quips meant to steer ladies away from conversations that could potentially become disastrous. Among my favorite were:
- "We need to talk,"
- "It's only a game for goodness' sake."
- and my personal favorite, "Do you think she's pretty?" That one can be sticky.
As I navigated away from that page, wasting time no doubt, I found another related article that spoke to me in a more direct way. This article was titled, "10 Things You Should Never Say to a Woman." I knew that I needed to read this page, perhaps print it and add it to my daily morning devotional time as I am the master of ill-timed comments and my flexibility has increased over the years of putting my foot in my mouth. Here are a few:
- "What did you do to your hair?!?!"
- "When are you due?" (I actually asked this of a woman on an elevator, and although I was going to the eleventh floor I exited on the fourth floor, quickly.)
- "You're acting just like your mother/my mother/my ex-girlfriend/wife."
You get the picture. Words have the power to create powerful emotions, set words to music and you can amplify the feelings double or triple-fold. Words are powerful. Once said, they live their own lives beyond our control. They can be twisted, misunderstood, ignored, or even destructive. The illustration of trying to return toothpaste to it's tube is a visual demonstration of the power of words and the life they live on their own when spoken or written, or perhaps even simply thinking some words has a great impact on the psyche of the one who is ecstatic or fuming.
In the April 11th, 2010 edition of the New York Times Book Review section, author Richard Howard asked an important question while reviewing a book titled, Why Translation Matters, by Edith Grossman. The question was simply, does translation matter, digging to the heart of the power of words. Let's face it, much conflict both internal and external begin with words being spoken and subsequently being misunderstood. "Where literature words exists, translation exists. Joined at the hip, they are absolutely inseparable." (New York Times Book Review 4/1/2010 p. 13) emphasis mine.
Words have the power to bring back memories, create feelings, or wound others. Words have the power to bring individuals or places to the present when the person or place is nowhere close. Think of someone you love, and say their name aloud right now. While they may not be within sight, perhaps even miles away, or no longer living on this earth, you've spoken a powerful name that brings that specific being of who that person is or was to you into the present time. The same is true of speaking of someone for whom you owe forgiveness, speaking their name may cause your face to get red, or worse other less gentle words to follow.
We rarely figuratively reach to retrieve words that are pleasant to the hearer: "You look nice tonight," or, "I'm so proud of you," or even three powerful words, "I love you." But, who wouldn't give the most priceless of possessions to have a single, "I hate you!" shouted from shear blinded anger disappear as if it were never said. If such a thing were possible, I wouldn't have a single priceless possession left, and probably none of my arms or legs either.
I remember distinctly the evening that my best friend with whom I grew up, Trey and I were sitting in his backyard. His parents had just gotten a hot tub and we stole a couple of beers from his Dad's refrigerator. We lounged in the warm bubbling water weaving stories of our manly exploits with the colorful language that we thought went with acting older than we were, misunderstanding that true men don't need to talk like sailors, rather, they should watch their tongues as we heard in church. Most of the yarns we spun were filled with complete fabrications of how handy we were with the ladies, if that were true, wouldn't we have had some girls join us that night?
It was then we heard the voice that changed the evening. At the end of a particularly good story of which I have no recollection, we heard from behind a rather large tree in the back yard, "Oh really? Y'all sure are a couple of ladies' men aren't you? And uh, where'd you get the beer?" The voice was familiar and at this moment terrifying. It was the voice of Trey's father who had come home late from work that evening, his mother was out of town on business. We sunk as low as we could in the water to hide from what might be coming.
Trey's father was a Christian man, but not a religious man. He rarely attended church, but Trey and I had begun attending a church in our neighborhood that changed our lives, each in different ways, but that's another story for another time. The last thing his Dad said before he walked into the house was, "As much as you boys go to church, I can't believe I just heard what I'd been listening to for the last ten minutes." And with that he walked inside, and we stayed hidden in the hot tub until we had to crawl out from mere exhaustion. The only solace I found was that he only heard ten minutes of our rambling idiocy.
Words are powerful. They speak truth, and they spew lies. They shape ideas we have of one another, socially, politically, and theologically.
God by His words spoke into existence all that we behold as His creation. The first chapter of Genesis is filled with the phrase, "And God said." By his word God separated light and dark naming them night and day, He separated the water from the sky, He made dry ground, and the sun, and moon, and stars, and creatures of all kinds. Lastly God said, "Let us make human beings in our image, in our likeness," Genesis 1:26a TNIV.
We humans, made in God's likeness have the ability to speak as God creatively and lovingly, He gave us that choice. We can use our words as building blocks or bullets. "For out of the overflow of the mouth the heart speaks." Matthew 12:34 TNIV. What is your heart condition, in plenty and in want, in stressful times and rest.
I've mentioned before a time when I saw words wrap around someone like a warm blanket on a frigid day. They came from the mouth of my wife, one of the most loving, accepting, and loyal people I know. If that was not true, my body would still be missing. As Chrissy, then my fiancee, was working with a group of underprivileged youth from the projects in inner-city Dallas I noticed that some of her favorite children were the ones that were treated the worst by their peers. Where they lived was a cruel place, filled with drugs, prostitutes, violence. Very few fathers lived at home, many of the children lived with grandparents and aunts. I noticed that Chrissy often would say to them, "I love you." Three simple words. Words I was fortunate enough to hear throughout my life. I didn't understand, that even when the boys acted tough or responded inappropriately or the girls got embarrassed many were hearing three simply said, but dynamically powerful words, "I love you."
Most every time we had what we called, "Fun Days," we would load up the children in a school bus owned by the college and take trips to different places, the zoo, the Dallas Aquarium, the lake, a lot of times we would simply take them to the college campus and let them play in the gym all morning before we fed them lunch and took them back home. For some of the kids that lunch of bologna and cheese sandwiches and cheetos would be the best and favorite meal of the week. I still get teased when about the time one of my favorite kids, "Pooh," was his nickname came back through the food line with two pieces of bread on his plate. We asked what was wrong and he pointed at me and said, "They wasn't no meat on my sammich! Fat Man ate the meat off my sammich! I ain't eatin' no bread sammich!" From then on, I had a new name thanks to, "Pooh," and he got a double sammich that day.
Ultimately, each time we met altercations, arguments and fights would happen. We usually knew who would be the ones who would be the instigators and we broke up more fights than we cared to count. Physical violence was one of the ways of communication that was seen daily to these young men and women. One chief instigator was a boy named Cory, we always knew he would start a fight with someone, and for some reason Cory decided I was his favorite adult. The same day that I ate the meat from Pooh's sammich was the same day Cory started a fight with two other boys over a game of basketball. I went to handle the situation and found that I was no match for what was happening, when a short, beautiful angel, who later became my wife, marched over to the boys, grabbed Cory in a loving but firm way, while he wiggled and squirmed and tried to get away from her she calmed him down and said, "We love you, but you can't act this way and come back. We love you. We love you." I wonder how many times Cory heard those words and how deeply they sunk into a young but already hardened heart.
I'm a user and sometimes an abuser of words. They are the overflow of my heart. Today, open your eyes wide, listen closely, feel deeply and you will see a chance to say the words to someone that may just be what they needed to hear at just the right time. A kind word is like a pebble thrown into a pond, we never really know how far the ripples travel.
A few years ago I found an interesting short piece on the internet titled, "10 Things You Should Never Say to a Guy." The title intrigued me, and the writing was brief so I looked through it and saw an amusing glimpse of quips meant to steer ladies away from conversations that could potentially become disastrous. Among my favorite were:
- "We need to talk,"
- "It's only a game for goodness' sake."
- and my personal favorite, "Do you think she's pretty?" That one can be sticky.
As I navigated away from that page, wasting time no doubt, I found another related article that spoke to me in a more direct way. This article was titled, "10 Things You Should Never Say to a Woman." I knew that I needed to read this page, perhaps print it and add it to my daily morning devotional time as I am the master of ill-timed comments and my flexibility has increased over the years of putting my foot in my mouth. Here are a few:
- "What did you do to your hair?!?!"
- "When are you due?" (I actually asked this of a woman on an elevator, and although I was going to the eleventh floor I exited on the fourth floor, quickly.)
- "You're acting just like your mother/my mother/my ex-girlfriend/wife."
You get the picture. Words have the power to create powerful emotions, set words to music and you can amplify the feelings double or triple-fold. Words are powerful. Once said, they live their own lives beyond our control. They can be twisted, misunderstood, ignored, or even destructive. The illustration of trying to return toothpaste to it's tube is a visual demonstration of the power of words and the life they live on their own when spoken or written, or perhaps even simply thinking some words has a great impact on the psyche of the one who is ecstatic or fuming.
In the April 11th, 2010 edition of the New York Times Book Review section, author Richard Howard asked an important question while reviewing a book titled, Why Translation Matters, by Edith Grossman. The question was simply, does translation matter, digging to the heart of the power of words. Let's face it, much conflict both internal and external begin with words being spoken and subsequently being misunderstood. "Where literature words exists, translation exists. Joined at the hip, they are absolutely inseparable." (New York Times Book Review 4/1/2010 p. 13) emphasis mine.
Words have the power to bring back memories, create feelings, or wound others. Words have the power to bring individuals or places to the present when the person or place is nowhere close. Think of someone you love, and say their name aloud right now. While they may not be within sight, perhaps even miles away, or no longer living on this earth, you've spoken a powerful name that brings that specific being of who that person is or was to you into the present time. The same is true of speaking of someone for whom you owe forgiveness, speaking their name may cause your face to get red, or worse other less gentle words to follow.
We rarely figuratively reach to retrieve words that are pleasant to the hearer: "You look nice tonight," or, "I'm so proud of you," or even three powerful words, "I love you." But, who wouldn't give the most priceless of possessions to have a single, "I hate you!" shouted from shear blinded anger disappear as if it were never said. If such a thing were possible, I wouldn't have a single priceless possession left, and probably none of my arms or legs either.
I remember distinctly the evening that my best friend with whom I grew up, Trey and I were sitting in his backyard. His parents had just gotten a hot tub and we stole a couple of beers from his Dad's refrigerator. We lounged in the warm bubbling water weaving stories of our manly exploits with the colorful language that we thought went with acting older than we were, misunderstanding that true men don't need to talk like sailors, rather, they should watch their tongues as we heard in church. Most of the yarns we spun were filled with complete fabrications of how handy we were with the ladies, if that were true, wouldn't we have had some girls join us that night?
It was then we heard the voice that changed the evening. At the end of a particularly good story of which I have no recollection, we heard from behind a rather large tree in the back yard, "Oh really? Y'all sure are a couple of ladies' men aren't you? And uh, where'd you get the beer?" The voice was familiar and at this moment terrifying. It was the voice of Trey's father who had come home late from work that evening, his mother was out of town on business. We sunk as low as we could in the water to hide from what might be coming.
Trey's father was a Christian man, but not a religious man. He rarely attended church, but Trey and I had begun attending a church in our neighborhood that changed our lives, each in different ways, but that's another story for another time. The last thing his Dad said before he walked into the house was, "As much as you boys go to church, I can't believe I just heard what I'd been listening to for the last ten minutes." And with that he walked inside, and we stayed hidden in the hot tub until we had to crawl out from mere exhaustion. The only solace I found was that he only heard ten minutes of our rambling idiocy.
Words are powerful. They speak truth, and they spew lies. They shape ideas we have of one another, socially, politically, and theologically.
God by His words spoke into existence all that we behold as His creation. The first chapter of Genesis is filled with the phrase, "And God said." By his word God separated light and dark naming them night and day, He separated the water from the sky, He made dry ground, and the sun, and moon, and stars, and creatures of all kinds. Lastly God said, "Let us make human beings in our image, in our likeness," Genesis 1:26a TNIV.
We humans, made in God's likeness have the ability to speak as God creatively and lovingly, He gave us that choice. We can use our words as building blocks or bullets. "For out of the overflow of the mouth the heart speaks." Matthew 12:34 TNIV. What is your heart condition, in plenty and in want, in stressful times and rest.
I've mentioned before a time when I saw words wrap around someone like a warm blanket on a frigid day. They came from the mouth of my wife, one of the most loving, accepting, and loyal people I know. If that was not true, my body would still be missing. As Chrissy, then my fiancee, was working with a group of underprivileged youth from the projects in inner-city Dallas I noticed that some of her favorite children were the ones that were treated the worst by their peers. Where they lived was a cruel place, filled with drugs, prostitutes, violence. Very few fathers lived at home, many of the children lived with grandparents and aunts. I noticed that Chrissy often would say to them, "I love you." Three simple words. Words I was fortunate enough to hear throughout my life. I didn't understand, that even when the boys acted tough or responded inappropriately or the girls got embarrassed many were hearing three simply said, but dynamically powerful words, "I love you."
Most every time we had what we called, "Fun Days," we would load up the children in a school bus owned by the college and take trips to different places, the zoo, the Dallas Aquarium, the lake, a lot of times we would simply take them to the college campus and let them play in the gym all morning before we fed them lunch and took them back home. For some of the kids that lunch of bologna and cheese sandwiches and cheetos would be the best and favorite meal of the week. I still get teased when about the time one of my favorite kids, "Pooh," was his nickname came back through the food line with two pieces of bread on his plate. We asked what was wrong and he pointed at me and said, "They wasn't no meat on my sammich! Fat Man ate the meat off my sammich! I ain't eatin' no bread sammich!" From then on, I had a new name thanks to, "Pooh," and he got a double sammich that day.
Ultimately, each time we met altercations, arguments and fights would happen. We usually knew who would be the ones who would be the instigators and we broke up more fights than we cared to count. Physical violence was one of the ways of communication that was seen daily to these young men and women. One chief instigator was a boy named Cory, we always knew he would start a fight with someone, and for some reason Cory decided I was his favorite adult. The same day that I ate the meat from Pooh's sammich was the same day Cory started a fight with two other boys over a game of basketball. I went to handle the situation and found that I was no match for what was happening, when a short, beautiful angel, who later became my wife, marched over to the boys, grabbed Cory in a loving but firm way, while he wiggled and squirmed and tried to get away from her she calmed him down and said, "We love you, but you can't act this way and come back. We love you. We love you." I wonder how many times Cory heard those words and how deeply they sunk into a young but already hardened heart.
I'm a user and sometimes an abuser of words. They are the overflow of my heart. Today, open your eyes wide, listen closely, feel deeply and you will see a chance to say the words to someone that may just be what they needed to hear at just the right time. A kind word is like a pebble thrown into a pond, we never really know how far the ripples travel.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Off The Rack
One of my least favorite activities in all of the world is trying on new clothes. When I have something new to add to my wardrobe I'm fine, but it is the routine of trying on new clothes that has always driven me crazy. I remember as a young boy the day that we would hop in the car and head to Anthony's Department Store where we would spend what seemed like hours trying on pair after pair of pants and jeans and shirts of all colors. I always hated those toughskin pants that were meant to endure an entire school year's worth of abuse because they were made of some sort of dark denim colored steel-laced burlap, and I especially disliked that my particular pairs of toughskin britches were in the cleverly named, "Husky," section of the store. Husky being the marketing genius' way of saying, "The fat kids clothes are over here!!!!" I did however manage to be born soon enough to miss the grrranimal underwear that I tortured my little brother about at the breakfast table making sure he didn't mismatch his lion underwear with a monkey t-shirt.
We played hard in those days. We were outside as soon as the school bell rang. Playing football, basketball, baseball, and anything else we could figure would pass the time. We once had the brilliant idea to take a long length of bungee cord and attach it to a bicycle frame so that it could swing from a tree. We would climb the eighteen rungs made of 2"by4" scraps of wood to launch ourselves from my friends clubhouse. It was a great idea, in fact I do believe that my small band of friends on 48th Street are the true inventors of bungee jumping, but didn't realize there were people dumb enough to pay us to do what we were doing. We would begin by getting on the saddle of the bicycle frame and over the edge we would go. We would pretend we were the BMX bicycle racers and practice our tricks as we flew through the air. That practice stopped the time the cord broke and sent Shane on a free trip into the wild blue yonder and through the fence of his back yard. But all of those activities were pretty hard on the invincible toughskin pants, which always meant another trip to the, "Husky," section of the store once the patches wore off the holes in the knees of the jeans. Toughskin my butt...those things were no match for Captain Holes-In-The_Knees-Of-His-Pants.
I guess the marketing think tanks came up with another term for husky, when there became the, "Big and Tall," section. It was just the grown-up version of the husky section filled with clothes that were meant for those who didn't find it easy to buy clothes straight from the rack. The brand names that graced the pants and shirts of those who were the popular good looking types were in the other section. Funny, I never saw a, "Short and Spindly," section.
One of the funnier times I ever recall being asked about shopping in a big and tall store came when a friend and I were watching television late one night in the lounge of our dorm in college and a commercial came on for, "Rochester Big and Tall Store." It was a high-end store that sold expensive suits to those who could afford them.
When the commercial ended my friend, Mike looked over to me and asked, "Does it cost more money to buy clothes from those stores than from regular people stores?"
"Yeah, a little bit more I guess," I said with a kind of smile on my face at his innocently asked question as I saw an embarrassing look creep upon his face.
"That sucks. It's just wrong that you have to pay more for clothes just because you're so......uh......uh.....tall."
"Yeah, we TALL people ought to get special parking places or something, huh?" I answered. Mike just kept staring at the television, I kept smiling.
Trying on new clothes is something that has always posed a challenge for me. Time after time I wanted to look like someone else, dress like someone else, be someone else. But I've rarely been what I call an off the rack kind of person. The kind of person who knows exactly what they want to wear, can pull the item from the shelf or the rack, and fit perfectly in the new clothes that cover them and project an image of who they are or who they think they are or aspire to be.
Perhaps you've heard the comment, "just because they made it in your size, doesn't mean they made it for you." It is a cruel comment, spewed unfortunately mostly toward females. But there is some truth in the comment. Trying on clothes is a metaphor for life, none of us are off the rack people. We're unique creations, special in our own God-made way, with a precision that surpasses the greatest human artists of any era in history.
When we were children it was perfectly acceptable to dress up as someone or something else. I wanted more than anything to be a football player or a cowboy, and there are pictures to prove it. I remember the Christmas spent with family in Ruidoso, New Mexico when I opened a box with a Dallas Cowboys uniform complete with pants, jersey, and a helmet. I didn't take off that uniform including the helmet for anything, including bed time. It was normal to want to emulate our heroes. My son wore a Halloween batman costume for several years every day until it was worn to shreds and no longer had any life in it. That was normal, except for the neighbors only knew him as Batman.
But as we grow older we begin to want to look like the images we see in glamor magazines or on television. Maybe we want to dress or look like our friends, or the crowd in which we were included. Maybe you have no idea what I'm writing about because you were the object that served as the model for someone else. We begin to think about projecting images of who or what we hope to be when we grow up. Believe me, there are no grown ups in this world until their lives are over, because we're all in the process of growing.
Too many of us spend time trying to be someone we're not, afraid of what we'll find when we see our true selves as God made us. We cope with that fear of being seen for who we really are with a variety of disguises. And when we wear those clothes that are not ours, life can be a very uncomfortable undertaking.
Imagine a time when you wore something that didn't fit YOU. It was too small or too big, too long or too short. It could be that no one noticed but you and the discomfort stayed with you the entire time you were robed in the cloak of another, and it felt good to be remove the borrowed covering. So it is with life.
As a preacher for the last sixteen years I've projected a number of images that weren't mine, I tried to be different people that I thought exuded success as I defined it at the moment. As a husband and a father I have modeled both wonderful and despicable wardrobes of attitude and reaction and action. As a friend I have been both a tight-lipped confidant and a selfish jerk. But as I look at all the roles I have to play in life there is one constant that must remain the same. I have to wear the same, "me," or I find life to be as miserable as an ill-fitting sports coat or a pair of slacks that are two sizes too small.
That's where the tricky part comes. Finding out who we really are in God's eyes. We are for sure loved and adored, we know that. Too many people project their relationship with their earthly parents or lack thereof onto God which isn't a true projection of the One who knows the very number of hairs on our head (for some of us it's getting easier for Him to count). God knows the secret you have that no one else knows, that tortures you day in and day out. God knows where you've been, what you've done, what you've said, he knows who you are!
God knows us for who we are. He knows that I am a man of excess. He knows I've had times when I worked too much and times when sloth held me close. He's seen me be a glutton and He's watched me fast. He knows I've drunk too much and times I've abhorred the drunkard. He's heard me ridicule someone else to remove the attention from myself, and to that end He's heard me be self-deprecating to beat someone to the punch in making jokes or hateful comments about me. Me, His creation. He knows I've been filled with hate and times I showed kindness when it wasn't merited in my eyes. He knows I've left everything on the field and when I coasted along in life and didn't reach for my potential. He knows I've seen, heard, said, and done things that I wish I could erase, but, praise God, He erased them for me on the cross, and by faith they're gone, and when we take hold of that it is as if an ever tightening belt around our heart and being is released and destroyed. Our remembrances of such things can move us in two directions. We can be destroyed further by guilt, which is a tool of Satan to remind us of how ugly we might think we are. Or, our memories of such times can move us forward, guilt free, but with the conviction that we are God's beautiful creation dressed in the robe that is the blood of Christ.
As I write I'm reminded of a young boy I can only remember as Nathan. Nathan and I attended the same elementary school in Lubbock, Texas. Nathan had very few, if any friends. Nathan was the youngest in his family of brothers and sisters and lived just a couple of blocks from my house. Nathan was quite a bit taller than the rest of his classmates. His hair was always too long and messy. His t-shirts were plain white and looked liked they'd been washed a million times. His pants were too short and too big in the waist providing with one of his many nicknames, "highwater." Nathan sat at the, "yellow bird," table with three other students in our class. The class was divided into four tables, each with a different colored bird hanging from a piece of yarn from the ceiling. We didn't know it then, but we suspected that each table represented the level of learning and aptitude for success a student possessed based on his or her seat at a table. I was a, "red bird," I hope it was the top table, but Mrs. White would never tell us. One thing we knew is that the, "yellow birds," often had to miss recess to finish work or get extra help, and I've wondered if that was alright with Nathan to miss thirty minutes of teasing as he would usually sit against the building when he did get to go to recess.
Nathan wore three time hand-me-down clothes, wasn't suspected of being too bright, rode his sister's old bicycle, and didn't have many friends, he was an outcast. His parents were rarely home, I supposed they worked a lot to care for their family. And one day my mother did the worst thing she could do to me. In front of everyone, she offered Nathan a ride home from school. What was she thinking? My friends saw "highwater," and me in the same car pull away from the school yard, and my mother had the audacity to stay in front of his house to make sure he made it inside since it was raining. That wasn't the only time she gave Nathan a ride home. I remember he always thanked my Mom and called her, "Ma'am." I wonder today where and who Nathan is. I wish I could go back and tell him I'm sorry that I wouldn't talk to him in the back seat of my Mom's car during that ride to his house and that I'm sorry that I was ashamed to be seen with someone who wasn't one of those, "off the rack," kind of people that I so wanted to be. I can't, but I can look for the Nathans in my life today and see them as the same creation that I am.
It doesn't matter what section or store we buy our clothes from, or what we drive, or where we live. What matters is that we all realize that in some way, shape, or form, we're all that kid wearing the husky toughskins with patches on the knees ashamed to ride with the Nathans in our world finding our pecking order in society, and remind ourselves daily that Jesus' words flowing from his mouth said this:
"But many who are first will be last, and the last first." Mark 10:31
Jesus was talking to his disciples who were amazed that Jesus' words to a man of great wealth that in order to follow him, the young man of great means must sell all that he possessed and give his proceeds to the poor, because Jesus knew that as long as the man owned much of earthly value, but truly his riches owned him. He had to be willing to be stripped of the things that labeled him as valuable. He had to realize that his earthly possessions and the status he held was not eternal, but fleeting. The man went away sad, because he was unwilling to give up his status to become an outcast disciple of this rabbi Jesus.
When we are clothed with Christ, there are no sections for the sizes of body or ego. From the woman in the richly decorated office to the man sitting quietly in his prison cell, when we profess our faith in the one who came for us and allowed his tough skin to be pierced with spikes on a splintered cross made sure for us to understand this truth; that while the earthly ways may have an order for who matters and who doesn't, the, "Huskies," and the ,"Highwaters," the model and the wealthy, all have the same standing in the eyes of Christ.
So dress for success by donning the robe of Christ, bought with his blood. The way I see Jesus' words is that when this life is over when the first are last and the last are first, that means it's a tie.
We played hard in those days. We were outside as soon as the school bell rang. Playing football, basketball, baseball, and anything else we could figure would pass the time. We once had the brilliant idea to take a long length of bungee cord and attach it to a bicycle frame so that it could swing from a tree. We would climb the eighteen rungs made of 2"by4" scraps of wood to launch ourselves from my friends clubhouse. It was a great idea, in fact I do believe that my small band of friends on 48th Street are the true inventors of bungee jumping, but didn't realize there were people dumb enough to pay us to do what we were doing. We would begin by getting on the saddle of the bicycle frame and over the edge we would go. We would pretend we were the BMX bicycle racers and practice our tricks as we flew through the air. That practice stopped the time the cord broke and sent Shane on a free trip into the wild blue yonder and through the fence of his back yard. But all of those activities were pretty hard on the invincible toughskin pants, which always meant another trip to the, "Husky," section of the store once the patches wore off the holes in the knees of the jeans. Toughskin my butt...those things were no match for Captain Holes-In-The_Knees-Of-His-Pants.
I guess the marketing think tanks came up with another term for husky, when there became the, "Big and Tall," section. It was just the grown-up version of the husky section filled with clothes that were meant for those who didn't find it easy to buy clothes straight from the rack. The brand names that graced the pants and shirts of those who were the popular good looking types were in the other section. Funny, I never saw a, "Short and Spindly," section.
One of the funnier times I ever recall being asked about shopping in a big and tall store came when a friend and I were watching television late one night in the lounge of our dorm in college and a commercial came on for, "Rochester Big and Tall Store." It was a high-end store that sold expensive suits to those who could afford them.
When the commercial ended my friend, Mike looked over to me and asked, "Does it cost more money to buy clothes from those stores than from regular people stores?"
"Yeah, a little bit more I guess," I said with a kind of smile on my face at his innocently asked question as I saw an embarrassing look creep upon his face.
"That sucks. It's just wrong that you have to pay more for clothes just because you're so......uh......uh.....tall."
"Yeah, we TALL people ought to get special parking places or something, huh?" I answered. Mike just kept staring at the television, I kept smiling.
Trying on new clothes is something that has always posed a challenge for me. Time after time I wanted to look like someone else, dress like someone else, be someone else. But I've rarely been what I call an off the rack kind of person. The kind of person who knows exactly what they want to wear, can pull the item from the shelf or the rack, and fit perfectly in the new clothes that cover them and project an image of who they are or who they think they are or aspire to be.
Perhaps you've heard the comment, "just because they made it in your size, doesn't mean they made it for you." It is a cruel comment, spewed unfortunately mostly toward females. But there is some truth in the comment. Trying on clothes is a metaphor for life, none of us are off the rack people. We're unique creations, special in our own God-made way, with a precision that surpasses the greatest human artists of any era in history.
When we were children it was perfectly acceptable to dress up as someone or something else. I wanted more than anything to be a football player or a cowboy, and there are pictures to prove it. I remember the Christmas spent with family in Ruidoso, New Mexico when I opened a box with a Dallas Cowboys uniform complete with pants, jersey, and a helmet. I didn't take off that uniform including the helmet for anything, including bed time. It was normal to want to emulate our heroes. My son wore a Halloween batman costume for several years every day until it was worn to shreds and no longer had any life in it. That was normal, except for the neighbors only knew him as Batman.
But as we grow older we begin to want to look like the images we see in glamor magazines or on television. Maybe we want to dress or look like our friends, or the crowd in which we were included. Maybe you have no idea what I'm writing about because you were the object that served as the model for someone else. We begin to think about projecting images of who or what we hope to be when we grow up. Believe me, there are no grown ups in this world until their lives are over, because we're all in the process of growing.
Too many of us spend time trying to be someone we're not, afraid of what we'll find when we see our true selves as God made us. We cope with that fear of being seen for who we really are with a variety of disguises. And when we wear those clothes that are not ours, life can be a very uncomfortable undertaking.
Imagine a time when you wore something that didn't fit YOU. It was too small or too big, too long or too short. It could be that no one noticed but you and the discomfort stayed with you the entire time you were robed in the cloak of another, and it felt good to be remove the borrowed covering. So it is with life.
As a preacher for the last sixteen years I've projected a number of images that weren't mine, I tried to be different people that I thought exuded success as I defined it at the moment. As a husband and a father I have modeled both wonderful and despicable wardrobes of attitude and reaction and action. As a friend I have been both a tight-lipped confidant and a selfish jerk. But as I look at all the roles I have to play in life there is one constant that must remain the same. I have to wear the same, "me," or I find life to be as miserable as an ill-fitting sports coat or a pair of slacks that are two sizes too small.
That's where the tricky part comes. Finding out who we really are in God's eyes. We are for sure loved and adored, we know that. Too many people project their relationship with their earthly parents or lack thereof onto God which isn't a true projection of the One who knows the very number of hairs on our head (for some of us it's getting easier for Him to count). God knows the secret you have that no one else knows, that tortures you day in and day out. God knows where you've been, what you've done, what you've said, he knows who you are!
God knows us for who we are. He knows that I am a man of excess. He knows I've had times when I worked too much and times when sloth held me close. He's seen me be a glutton and He's watched me fast. He knows I've drunk too much and times I've abhorred the drunkard. He's heard me ridicule someone else to remove the attention from myself, and to that end He's heard me be self-deprecating to beat someone to the punch in making jokes or hateful comments about me. Me, His creation. He knows I've been filled with hate and times I showed kindness when it wasn't merited in my eyes. He knows I've left everything on the field and when I coasted along in life and didn't reach for my potential. He knows I've seen, heard, said, and done things that I wish I could erase, but, praise God, He erased them for me on the cross, and by faith they're gone, and when we take hold of that it is as if an ever tightening belt around our heart and being is released and destroyed. Our remembrances of such things can move us in two directions. We can be destroyed further by guilt, which is a tool of Satan to remind us of how ugly we might think we are. Or, our memories of such times can move us forward, guilt free, but with the conviction that we are God's beautiful creation dressed in the robe that is the blood of Christ.
As I write I'm reminded of a young boy I can only remember as Nathan. Nathan and I attended the same elementary school in Lubbock, Texas. Nathan had very few, if any friends. Nathan was the youngest in his family of brothers and sisters and lived just a couple of blocks from my house. Nathan was quite a bit taller than the rest of his classmates. His hair was always too long and messy. His t-shirts were plain white and looked liked they'd been washed a million times. His pants were too short and too big in the waist providing with one of his many nicknames, "highwater." Nathan sat at the, "yellow bird," table with three other students in our class. The class was divided into four tables, each with a different colored bird hanging from a piece of yarn from the ceiling. We didn't know it then, but we suspected that each table represented the level of learning and aptitude for success a student possessed based on his or her seat at a table. I was a, "red bird," I hope it was the top table, but Mrs. White would never tell us. One thing we knew is that the, "yellow birds," often had to miss recess to finish work or get extra help, and I've wondered if that was alright with Nathan to miss thirty minutes of teasing as he would usually sit against the building when he did get to go to recess.
Nathan wore three time hand-me-down clothes, wasn't suspected of being too bright, rode his sister's old bicycle, and didn't have many friends, he was an outcast. His parents were rarely home, I supposed they worked a lot to care for their family. And one day my mother did the worst thing she could do to me. In front of everyone, she offered Nathan a ride home from school. What was she thinking? My friends saw "highwater," and me in the same car pull away from the school yard, and my mother had the audacity to stay in front of his house to make sure he made it inside since it was raining. That wasn't the only time she gave Nathan a ride home. I remember he always thanked my Mom and called her, "Ma'am." I wonder today where and who Nathan is. I wish I could go back and tell him I'm sorry that I wouldn't talk to him in the back seat of my Mom's car during that ride to his house and that I'm sorry that I was ashamed to be seen with someone who wasn't one of those, "off the rack," kind of people that I so wanted to be. I can't, but I can look for the Nathans in my life today and see them as the same creation that I am.
It doesn't matter what section or store we buy our clothes from, or what we drive, or where we live. What matters is that we all realize that in some way, shape, or form, we're all that kid wearing the husky toughskins with patches on the knees ashamed to ride with the Nathans in our world finding our pecking order in society, and remind ourselves daily that Jesus' words flowing from his mouth said this:
"But many who are first will be last, and the last first." Mark 10:31
Jesus was talking to his disciples who were amazed that Jesus' words to a man of great wealth that in order to follow him, the young man of great means must sell all that he possessed and give his proceeds to the poor, because Jesus knew that as long as the man owned much of earthly value, but truly his riches owned him. He had to be willing to be stripped of the things that labeled him as valuable. He had to realize that his earthly possessions and the status he held was not eternal, but fleeting. The man went away sad, because he was unwilling to give up his status to become an outcast disciple of this rabbi Jesus.
When we are clothed with Christ, there are no sections for the sizes of body or ego. From the woman in the richly decorated office to the man sitting quietly in his prison cell, when we profess our faith in the one who came for us and allowed his tough skin to be pierced with spikes on a splintered cross made sure for us to understand this truth; that while the earthly ways may have an order for who matters and who doesn't, the, "Huskies," and the ,"Highwaters," the model and the wealthy, all have the same standing in the eyes of Christ.
So dress for success by donning the robe of Christ, bought with his blood. The way I see Jesus' words is that when this life is over when the first are last and the last are first, that means it's a tie.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Remembering Old Hope Gives Strength to New Hope
In these days of uncertainty for our family. While we look for what our next turn in life will be and hope for the wisdom to see God's guidance in this trip down life's lane, I have looked to our past together as a family through some of my writings in the journals I keep that hold the jumbled mess in my head sometimes that bleeds out onto the page. I remember distinctly the morning I watched a sunrise after a morning walk, and while showering, dressing, and brewing my coffee for the morning I wrote these words about the artwork only God can create. It was my reminder today that with each day there is new hope and it is darkest before the light.
"Dawn"
The sky painted pink and purple,
blends to a gold and blue that can only be painted by the hand of God.
The sun makes way from the place where she lay,
waiting for night to be through.
The symphony of birds' song fill the air
as a chorus of praise to the Almighty.
While damp darkness surrenders to the beauty of the coming day
The haze of night has passed and gasps it's final breath,
as it bows low in praise to the light of dawn
and to the One who lights His creation.
The day is new
and as I share the joy of His masterpiece
with all of God's handiwork,
I see the smile of God.
--Clint Stephenson March 12, 2001
I was reminded by this writing with each new day, each rising of the sun, there rests boundless opportunity. May we always be diligent in finding it, and when we do, may we praise the Creator of all good things.
"Dawn"
The sky painted pink and purple,
blends to a gold and blue that can only be painted by the hand of God.
The sun makes way from the place where she lay,
waiting for night to be through.
The symphony of birds' song fill the air
as a chorus of praise to the Almighty.
While damp darkness surrenders to the beauty of the coming day
The haze of night has passed and gasps it's final breath,
as it bows low in praise to the light of dawn
and to the One who lights His creation.
The day is new
and as I share the joy of His masterpiece
with all of God's handiwork,
I see the smile of God.
--Clint Stephenson March 12, 2001
I was reminded by this writing with each new day, each rising of the sun, there rests boundless opportunity. May we always be diligent in finding it, and when we do, may we praise the Creator of all good things.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Blast From the Past
I was reorganizing some files, records, pictures, and my journals that I'd written in over the last 15 years. I came across one that was always one of my favorites. Written beside an early morning campfire, while the coffee was hung over the coals. I take my wind-up alarm clock with me wherever I go, and I had set it to get warm and get the coffee ready so we could eat breakfast and head out for a day of fly-fishing. I sat thinking, I'll never have this moment back again. I pulled my journal out of my pack and wrote these words:
The hand, the moving, ticking hand,
The never stopping hand that glows light green in the night
Never stops. Never.
The ceaseless tick reminds me the moment is gone.
The hand never stops or slows for anyone or anything.
Only obeyed.
The hand moves forward into uncharted time,
Yet to be experienced, while moments of grief or ehxhaltation wait
On those who have yet to see what is in store for the day in the next tick.
The hand cannot move backward, the past is relegated only to memories,
Comforting, disheartening, dissappointing, exciting, and apathetic.
Unaffected by its surroundings in the moment, that are not erasable.
The ticking hand stops for nothing, it moves us one click closer to our end.
With each clockwise movement of that hand I am brought closer to the dust,
The dust from whence I came.
The clock reminds me of the passage and gift of time,
And my only control I possess is my actions and reactions between the ticks.
Clint Stephenson, March 9th, 2001
By the way the smell of the coffee and the smell of bacon sizzling in a cast iron pot over the fire awakened the rest of the troops.
The hand, the moving, ticking hand,
The never stopping hand that glows light green in the night
Never stops. Never.
The ceaseless tick reminds me the moment is gone.
The hand never stops or slows for anyone or anything.
Only obeyed.
The hand moves forward into uncharted time,
Yet to be experienced, while moments of grief or ehxhaltation wait
On those who have yet to see what is in store for the day in the next tick.
The hand cannot move backward, the past is relegated only to memories,
Comforting, disheartening, dissappointing, exciting, and apathetic.
Unaffected by its surroundings in the moment, that are not erasable.
The ticking hand stops for nothing, it moves us one click closer to our end.
With each clockwise movement of that hand I am brought closer to the dust,
The dust from whence I came.
The clock reminds me of the passage and gift of time,
And my only control I possess is my actions and reactions between the ticks.
Clint Stephenson, March 9th, 2001
By the way the smell of the coffee and the smell of bacon sizzling in a cast iron pot over the fire awakened the rest of the troops.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
It Ain't Old... It's Got Character
There are always just a very few things on my bedside table: A lamp, one of the books I'm reading at the time, and my alarm clock. My wife doesn't understand one of those items, the alarm clock. To understand her dismay and dislike of my timekeeper that she finally accepted over the years of marriage you have to know that it is an old wind-up alarm clock with a bell that would wake the dead when it's time to get the day started. Chrissy didn't like hearing the constant tick-tick-tick-tick, I like it and it actually lulls me to sleep, it's not like I keep a siren or an airhorn blaring through the night. Those ticks are just reminders of a second gone and as I explained to her, the less ticks you hear the more sleep you're going to get. And God knows Chrissy better get sleep or else, let's just say it ain't pleasant. Chrissy mentioned that I had to wind the clock every day or it didn't work. No problem I see it right before I lay my head down to sleep praying to the Lord my soul to keep. On her bedside table is a Bose Alarm Clock with a CD player that will allow her to have her chosen song softly awaken her in the morning, gently increasing in volume until the spoiled owner of such a contraption finally decides to greet the day. She still hasn't realized that just because she has such a fancy alarm clock that silently keeps time until her favorite singer whispers a song in her ear, she can't clap her hands and have our servants bring her breakfast and a cup of tea. For one, we don't have servants, heck, our kids won't even do what we say. But also, I figure you're spoiled enough if you have an on demand DJ to awaken you in the morning. By the way, just this past Sunday night and early Monday morning a powerful storm came through our little town of Forney toppling fences, whirling shingles from rooftops, collapsing portable buildings, blowing over trucks, and unearthing power poles. While we slept, we had no idea that we were without electricity, so Chrissy's bedside boyfriend was rendered useless, but old silver clock kept the time and let us know what time it was and when it was time for feet to hit the floor and get going. Over the course of our marriage Chrissy has bought me a couple of comfortable cushy recliners. They looked nice, and were comfortable, and I was glad for any guest to sit in them when they came to our home. But my sweet wife couldn't figure out why I chose rather to sit in one of two straight back wooden rocking chairs. To her it didn't make sense, but, I don't make sense to her a lot of the time. I find them the two most comfortable chairs in the house, but there's more to why I like them. The wooden rocking chair that sits in our downstairs living room is special to me for a variety of reasons. This particular chair came from the nursery of a small east Texas town where I was serving in my first pastorate. As I walked down the hall I saw our custodian carrying out the three rocking chairs to put on the curb for trash pick-up day. "Whoahhhhhh! William, what in the world are you doing?" I asked. William, our custodian answered me with a startled look on his face, "Well, the ladies in the nursery (all older ladies who had been members of the church for many years) told me since we finally had a baby in the nursery for the first time in so long they decided they would buy some, what'd they call them... Oh yeah, glider rocker chairs or something like that. Anyway these are going to the trash." That first baby in the nursery in years was actually my infant daughter, and I don't reckon she would've minded being rocked in one of those chairs. About an hour later I went out to the heap and carefully pulled out the three chairs that had been in that nursery since Abraham was still in short pants. I looked them over and loaded each rocking chair into the back of my Ford Explorer. When I got home I unloaded them into my garage and began to assess what needed to be done to make them completely steady and began my work on them. When I ran into trouble I asked next door neighbor to the North if he could give me a hand. He was a retired gentleman, an elder at the Church of Christ, and always brougt me some crappie whenever he went fishing. We worked together on those chairs until they were like new. I offered for him to have one if he needed or wanted it, so he took his favorite. I put one on my front porch, and put my favorite in the living room. It was my favorite because that was the chair the ladies always rocked Caitlin in during church services. When we moved, I left the porch chair for an elder at the church who collected antiques, but my favorite was loaded on the moving truck and it's been my chair since. It may not be soft but it's the most comfortable chair in the house. It's helped rock babies in the middle of the night, been the companion to reading plenty of books, from that chair volumes of journals have been filled with thoughts, and in my appraisal, it looks mighty fine right where it is. The porch rocker I call the, "pondering chair." It's not nearly as old as his inside companion, but, plenty of character nonetheless. I find myself in that chair in the cool of the morning and evening, sometimes after a walk or a run, sometimes with my dog Sammie sitting beside me. I think through problems, dillemmas, and conundrums. I ruminate over ideas for ministry, sermons, lessons, special speeches. Many times it is a chair of prayer where I lift my love, adoration, thoughts, worries, praises, and life before God in the quiet that doesn't exist in the city anywhere. From that chair whether pondering, thinking, praying, writing, petting Sammie, or on a few occassions just dozing off I hear the distant train whistles I've come to love. I love quilts and afghans. Chrissy and I are blessed to have quilts and afghans made for us, or inherited from the ones who had them before us. They're warm and comfortable, but better yet they are symbols of the work of the hands of our Grandparents, Great Grandparents, a Great Great Grandmother, a Great Great Aunt, and others who are just like family to me. I'd take an old slightly tattered quilt with love so saturated in it's very fabric over the most expensive bedroom whatever-you-call-'ems any day. They're special, you'd never catch me using one of those quilts to wipe up a spill or clean grease off of my hands. My Great Grandmother sat carefully laboring meticulously with her own hands something to keep her family warm, now warms my heart and soul and I wouldn't take a million dollars for them. Alright, that's a lie. I'd take the money, but we would share custody and have visiting rites with our quilts. Coincidentally, one of those quilts that was made for Chrissy by her Great Great Aunt stays folded and hangs over the back of my rocking chair. It's a good fit. I like old pictures of family, because each picture is a split second moment in time of a bigger story. Old pictures take our minds back to the event to relive them and laugh, or cry, or miss someone with an ache that feels right because of love. I know a lady who keeps all of her pictures and negatives by the front door of her house because she said that if her house catches on fire she knows she wants those first if that's all she can save. I look at the pictures of my children and can't believe how big they are. I remember rocking a little round handful of brand new gifts from God who are smarter than their Dad, and Caitlin's almost as tall as me. I'm going to ask Caitlin to tell all of these boys that are courting her all the time I learn about through code speak between Momma and daughter to subscribe to this blog and read this statement VERY carefully: "I understand you're interested in my daughter and would like to meet her at the movies or at Chili's or wherever. I understand because like her Momma she's beautiful. You need to understand my name is Mr. Stephenson to you, and at our house we say, "Yes Sir, Yes Ma'am, No Sir, and No Ma'am." You don't wear a hat in my house, and your underwear shouldn't be visible above your pants unless you're a useful plumber. Here's a test for you...are you going to give my daughter a reason to cry or feel bad? That's where you say, "No Sir." Now I know that Caitlin and whatever your name is and Jesus are all going to have a good time tonight. And I have guns. Y'all run along and have a good time. Nice to meet you." I like the times we eat off of my Great Grandmother's Special china dishes and drink from my Grandmother's crystal glasses. That means it's a special time, and the family members I've known the longest and loved the hardest and been loved back without condition have gathered to share a meal and conversation. It took many years before I learned that this was the more special time than when presents are opened at Christmas, or eggs are hunted, or even birthday cake is served. We'd never dream of taking that china on the veranda for a cookout with burgers or dogs. That china and crystal might be valuable on the Antiques Road Show, but they're more valuable to our family because they represent hard work, farming hard land to make the money to purchase them. They represent the care they receive as they are washed, dried, and put away in the proper place. They aren't just old they represent character. My Dog Sammie hasn't only got character, she is a character. But she's a loved member of the family. She never fails to want my hand on her head when she lays by my chair...She does sometimes escaped to explore and makes me want to drop her off in that mystical land called County Road Where am I. But then, she's an old member of the family, and we've got a lot invested in her and she in us. She was hit by a car years ago and had to have a hip replacement so we have literaly invested a ton in that four legged member of the clan. We live in an age of faster, quicker, newer, better. Go buy a cel phone or computer today and tomorrow you'll see an ad that something new and "better," do we have to get? My kid's talk in a technologically advanced language that sounds more like gibberish to me than anything else. When I have a problem with my iPhone, I just hand it to Caitlin, she hands it back, problem solved. What happened to those cel phones that were about a foot tall and weighed ten pounds (which were and still are the only reason for pants to be sagging). My kid's can't believe that telephones ever had cords, and I laughed out loud years ago when Caitlin couldn't figure out how to use a rotary dial phone. Faster, quicker, newer, better...better? I like talking to people that too many folks label as, "old folks." I love hearing stories from family members and church members that have lived much more life than I have and survived tougher times than I can imagine. And to think my Great Grandfather was a successful farmer and rancher without an iPhone, computer, television, microwave, or a Laz-e-boy chair. I'll bet he sat in a straight backed wooden rocking chair and ate the meals that my Great Grandmother made from the sweat of her brow. And I have a feeling that they were just as happy as my family is today with all the gadgets and doodads. I must say that I sure hope they had their coffee, because that's the best place to drink a cup is in your chair. Well, I guess my point is that you can't make my trusty bedside companion the old wind-up silver clock a clock 2.0. I don't believe that there's such a thing as the iQuilt, and the 6G network for china and crystal doesn't exist. Sammie the dog is an improved version of the original, but if robodog hadn't gotten her butt run over by a car she'd be just same ole Sammye. If you'll look around and see so much that you might think of as old, look closer those things might be filled with love and character far beyond old trash. And look closely at those people in your life that have touched your heart in a variety of ways, especially the one's that you've thrown away because of an argument, hurt feelings, jealousy, or just because you're so wrapped up in your own life you forget to value the character, wisdom, and love that can be poured into you when you pull out those relationships, dust them off, and put them in a special place in your heart. I have one more special item that is valuable to me, and was grateful to get it. I is my Great Grandmother's butter churn. When no longer used, a family friend painted a rural scene of a field and barn on that churn. It's been relegated to my office since I received it from my Grandmother because my wife hates it. I have no idea why. But now that I don't have an office for the time being outside the house, I will be marching downstairs to the garage and bringing my prized butter churn it's new home. I'm thinking next to my rocking chair in the living room. Maybe if I tell the kid's that it's a 4GiButterChurn3.0 they'll be on my side on this one. And remember, with each tick of my bedside bell-ringing, time-keeping machine another tick means another second is gone forever. Life is fast enough, so slow down and open your eyes to the character and character's all around you and your heart will be filled beyond belief.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)