Being a Father

I spoke to an acquaintance yesterday about the child we are adopting.  This acquaintance is about my age, single, works where I do with a parallel job so he makes a little more than I do.  But while he has himself to support, I support my wife and three kids.  He was appalled that we would think to adopt another.  He couldn't see how I supported my present family, much less go through an adoption with its accompanying costs and future support needs, on my salary.
  We talked about our students, too.  I spoke of a particular student who had been absent a lot, how I had asked about her sickness.  The curious thing my acquaintance said was, "Well, your idea of a father must be very different from mine."  He went on to describe how his father would lay down the law and you did as you were told.  I explained that while my father had some similarities to that concept, I felt that I owed my children and my students something a little different.  No one would even begin to think that I went easy on my kids (by birth or by occupation).  I have earned the reputation for being a demanding and exacting teacher.  But I also hope that my kids see the other side too, where I am there to support and encourage them to be the best God made them to be.  I think they do, most of the time.  Except for those who call me evil.
  And yet, I think I fail most of the time.  Perhaps I take myself too seriously, or think too much of my place in their lives.  Unfourtunately, no one really knows how I am doing, including myself, until we see the result.  I always say I am more interested in where my kids end up (10, 20 years down the road) than how they do tomorrow.  God lays such convoluted paths for us that no one really knows where they will be.  As Jesus said, "Do not worry about tomorrow.  Today has enough trouble of its own."
   So why do I think I fail?  Well, according to short-term results, and some long-term.  My own children are focused in the wrong direction, talking more about Tolkien, Harry Potter, and Greek mythology than the true Lord and Saviour they have pledged to.  They whine and complain and bicker more than any children I know.  And as a leader, I fail my wife.  She has trouble being satisfied with what she has and hungers for better.  This is not the family of a man guided and dedicated to God.
  And yet...David was a man after God's own heart, and his family was in shambles.  He wrote psalms we still sing, solidified a nation, killed a giant, all through his dedication to God.  He also stole sacred bread from the temple, murdered Uriah, and married his mistress Bathsheba.  And yet...a man after God's own heart.
  When my daughter was very young, I would kneel by her bedside and pray.  As a young father, it was very apparent that my daughter would make her own choices, and while I could affect those the choices were hers to make.  To obey or fight.  To love or strike.  To plug her ears or to listen.  To be humble or proud.  As a teacher and older father, nothing has changed.  The choices of good and evil still lie before my children and I can only influence their choices.  I can do no more.
  Maybe that is what made David a man of God.  Not that he did what was right (apparently), but that his heart was in God's hand.  And when he sinned, he expected judgement and accepted it.  He recognized God for who he is and did not fight him.
  Lord, grant me patience and a desire for your heart.  Father, teach me to be hopeful as you are for us, never failing in my love for my children.  Holy Spirit, work in the lives of my dear ones.  Work your miracles that we may meet in the sky and finally be at peace.

A dying art

    When I was younger, in the days when the only form of internet was DARPANet, you contacted people with letters (by hand even!) and occasional phone calls.  Even those phone calls were a rare thing between countries; between states and cities was just expensive enough to be worth careful consideration before engaging in. This lead to constant communication with a choice few, as it took time to write and send a letter, and even more time (on the order of a few days to weeks) for the letter to reach its destination.
    With the knowledge that what you write today would not be read for a while yet, you made sure that each line and word carried the appropriate meaning.  Plus, you were writing which meant that you had to think and consider what you wrote before you wrote it.  Writing letters was considered an art form that took in-school training to do well.
    My, how things have changed. With the advent of e-mail, instant messaging, Facebook, and the like, communication is instant and always within reach.  It now takes considerable and purposeful effort to be out-of-touch.  You can keep up with the minutiae of people's lives, even people you knew for a year of middle school 25 years ago and have never spoken to since!  So much information: what songs they like, what pictures they post, what chickens have hatched an egg, where they are having dinner and with whom...

  And yet I have to ask: of what good is this?  In the days of letter writing, the words held so much meaning as they were all that was had.  If someone wrote you a letter, it was an act of will to have written it.  Now we are so inundated with information that words are cheap, just as much as information.  We yell personal comments across the crowded Face-net where everyone can see and weigh in their opinions, when all we really wanted was to tell our friend we missed their smile.

  I think that so much instant communication cheapens the communication itself until it is no longer worth treasuring.  I see a day coming, that may already have come, when we prefer the mask of instant communication to personal contact.  When we hide behind words and opinions rather than facing people with carefully considered words of truth and love.  The Bible speaks of the quiet words of the wise in Ecclesiastes, and I think we are becoming so busy yelling out, "Pay attention to me!" that we no longer hear the quiet voices of wisdom.  Sit in silence.  Turn off the phone, the tablet, the computer, and talk to your family.  Spend time with your friends.  Savour your time together and remember it in quietude as the days pass.

The Inquisition

  When Jesus walked the earth, all those many years ago, he spoke with rich and poor, men and women, even little children, calling them all to himself.  He reached tenderly to the hearts and met the needs of so many with grace and piercing insight.  Yet he was a man without a home, with no place to lay his head.  He placed a good deal of emphasis on the good soil of a person's heart, for though he spoke to the hard-hearted many times, it is clear that for most it was "easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God."

  Riches and hard hearts go hand in hand in Jesus' teaching, indeed, throughout most of scripture.  There are the exceptions: David, Zacchaeus, Matthew, Solomon, and some others.  But for the most part it appears that riches have a hardening effect; it is like wealth sucks the moisture from the soul leaving it dry and hard.  So what about me?  I am rich, at least, when compared with so many around me.  I live in a nice apartment with plenty of food and toys.  I have air conditioning and my children go to a private school.  I have money saved up for retirement, a fair chunk.  Are these riches hardening me?

  Would I even know?  Does the ant trapped in amber know it will soon be forever encased while it struggles?  I fear that my eyes are not as open as I think.  My lord and master focused on the poor, those who know their need for a saviour, who have so little to hope for.  And yet here I am, focusing my time on the rich.  I have most of my life.  It is my calling, I say, for do they not also need a Saviour?  Surely, but success has been so scarce.

  In this time of enlightenment and free speech, I can speak of my Lord, his death and resurrection, without fear of retribution.  So then why is it such a rare speech on my lips?  Oh sure, I acknowledge his role in every facet of my life, to anyone who lends an ear, but....but....is that enough?

  In Cartagena, my family and friends were taken on a tour of the Governor's Residence, which shared walls with the residence of the Inquisition when it was in town, so many years ago.  This was an extension of the Spanish Inquisition of legend, those who tortured people so cruelly in the supposed attempt to exonerate their soul.  At that time, all it took was an accusation, based in truth or lie, to put them to the tongs.  A simple offense could place you in the rack if you did not amend it in time.

  The cost for speaking of Jesus as Lord as one you know personally, apart from the Church and its traditions, would certainly put you in danger of being purified.  Would I have spoken up then?  Would I have placed my family and myself at risk, simply to pledge myself to an unseen Lord?  I don't think so.  Then as now, I would have followed the prescribed method of speaking carefully and in the right times and places, of applying tact to my own beliefs.  I would have hidden the Light within me within my layers of amber as counseled.

  Am I any different now?  It is no longer the rack or the stocks but the derision and scoffing that threaten me with so many feathery strokes.  Watch me disappear and speak silent words, living in a dead hope of my own traditions and excuses.  See me keep my family healthy and well fed, provided for with so many powerless words.  Look to the future, where I raise children and support a wife that adapts to the world we live in.

My Saviour died for the world.  I hide for it.

Rain

Rain comes often to this country, usually in the afternoon.  Yesterday it rained 4-5 times just in our little neighbourhood.  I love the pitter-patter sound of rain on the roofs and streets, the sound of taxis and pedestrians splashing their way down the street.  It is a soothing sound ushering in the replenishment of moisture and reminder of the variations of nature.

Consider the rain.  A sprinkling is a brief bit of sky-spittle reminding us that water exists just beyond our grasp, but keeps us hoping.  A light rain cools our feet and softens our brows.  A good rain wets the ground and cools the air, washing dirt and grime where it wishes.  It is pleasant and pleasing to the soul.  Then there is a pelting, when it seems the drops strike the surface with an angry vengeance.  A storm comes with flashes of lightning and peals of thunder, knocking down leaves and keeping us huddled indoors.  The worse is gets, the more destructive it becomes, crushing houses and trees, reshaping hillsides and transplanting large vehicles with its floods.  In the worst times, the storm engulfed the entire world in its wrath.

  I love the rain in all its devices.  It reminds me that I am but a small force on a large planet.  It reminds me of God.  He is the quiet gentle whisper of promises of peace to come.  He is the one that cools our souls and gives us rest.  He cleanses us gently with soft warmth and love.  He judges with fire and heat, scourging our souls with pain and agony that we might turn to him and live.  If we still refuse, God wipes us away with a flick of his hand, leveling mountains of mankind's power and strength.

  My God, the Lord God, who is and has always been and forever will be, is calling me with letters of love, whispering to me of his kindness and gentleness, of his power and might.  Through the rain, he beckons to my soul.  I am refreshed.

A Little Bit of Goodness

I wonder why they are walking up the stairs.  It's funny to think that I can see them and they
don't know they are being observed.  I see they're wearing IDs...must be some type of
official establishment. Why does the building have such large and clear windows up the
entire stairwell?  I wonder...

...how they think that of me.  Why is it that they view my words

of comfort and hope as wisdom?  Anything useful I have to say is 

just what God speaks, what he has taught.  They don't know, I 

guess, of the things deep inside.  Of the past hurts and aches,

crimes and darkness.  They don't see my inmost being the way 

I do: the dark places occupied by selfish sins, greeds, and lusts.

If only they could see, they would no longer...

...scratch themselves.  Or worse.  What lewd acts do we perform when we think

no one is looking?  How often have people walked up those stairs and caught a 

second to smoke, to unzip and tuck in their shirt, or even exposed their secret

places to satisfy a dark and dirty desire?  And what I am watching for?  Am I

hoping to catch a glimpse of wanton privacy?  Or maybe I am just...

...watching for something special to emerge.  So many times I see 

the glimmers of possibility expose themselves for a moment.  Is

that not my task, not to be some freak wise man but rather to be 

the quiet cricket telling them , showing them of the beauty made 

in them by the Creator?  Perhaps that is what wisdom is: seeing 

the truth and speaking it when there is need.  It is not that I must

know their innermost secrets, but rather that I want to encourage

the brightness of their spirit and help them release their fears.

And I just hope they never misread it.  That is the constant fear,

is it not?  That confluence of fear and  darkness that dreads the 

possible-inevitable and hopes, prays, works to make it the

impossible.  But I cannot live in fear, and so I must do what is right,

for them, and continue to sacrifice the darkness to the Light...even

in my secret thoughts.  But even so, God will...

...make all things good.  How interesting.  I thought he stopped

to chat her up, but he was simply being courteous.  Why did he

move aside?  Does he always, for anyone, or is it just because it

was a woman coming up the stairs?  I have taken pride in myself, 

noticing the lack of air-conditioning due to the open windows, the

IDs and lack of doors in the stairwell.  But of what use is this pride?

Here I lie, watching people's lives as they walk up and down stairs.

And I am satisfied.  What will continue today is that one man's gesture

of respect, and since I do not know his whole life, only this brief instant,

I must take it for what it seems to be.  A little bit of goodness.  Oh

how many times do I get a glimpse and see the poverty of the soul!

And yet here, in this quietude of my bedroom watching the sonorous

steps across the way, was given the gift of someone's thoughtfulness.

It gives me hope.

Is that what sets me apart, God?  Is it that a little bit of kindness,

of goodness, shines into their lives?  And yet, like the young man

in the stairs, all the goodness that I have flows from the throne of your

grace.  Whether through parents, friends, or strangers, or directly, all

goodness flows from your throne.   Just as your grace does.

It is enough then.  May the small moments of my time in their lives be the same as that one gesture.  That while so many expect failure and darkness, as is typical of the world, may the light you give me shine through, exposing them to your Love and Tenderness.  And I am but a portal, a little bit of goodness reflecting your light in my life.  It is enough.

Good morning, world.

What I want to be when I grow up

When I was about 4 years old, my father was in the Air Force Reserves.  Once I was on the field when he jumped from an airplane, and I watched him parachute to the ground.  I turned to my mother and told her that, when I was older, "I'm gonna be a preacher, a teacher, and jump out of airplanes."  Just like my father.  I loved my father with child-like abandon then.

  As I got older, things changed.  I began to resent and fear my father as the harsh disciplinarian who was strict and unfeeling.  At the same time, I wanted to please my father and be worthy of the praise he showered on me constantly.  I felt so unworthy of the praise, as I only did what made sense to me at the time.  I began to see my father as someone who didn't really see me, but just saw who he wanted me to be.  So I grew distant from my father and mistrusting.  Balanced in the same falsehood was the feeling that I had to measure up, somehow, to who he wanted me to be.  But being a teacher or a preacher were purposefully removed from my list, simply because that would be being like my father.

   It's funny the things you realize, when you are older.  How you were so very wrong.  Time has a way of humbling you, if you listen.

  As I got older, I realized that what I was good at was teaching, but I fought it because that would be just like my father.  It wasn't that I didn't want to be like him, but rather I had to ensure that I did not become a teacher TO be like him.  And now here am I today, deciding it is time for me to preach.

  I have wasted so much time listening to this world, and God has had to really twist my arm and show me great suffering to get my attention.  Will I listen this time?

  You see, if I had, just for a little while, given up my own selfish desires and feelings of inadequacy, I would have flourished under my father.  I was so busy fighting and being independent that I lost the chance to be molded.  What I would have been, or whether my father should have dealt differently, is a useless conversation.  This is the road I have walked, and I am grateful that God has had the patience to mold me and break my will down little by little.  And he is not yet done breaking me down...there is still work to be done on my heart.  I am still to focused inward to be of much good.

  I have to let go.  I have to release my desires and wants and be free to follow God.  Sacrifice all that I want for myself and live for the good of the people in this world.  People are dying without knowing Christ, without the chance to hear his calming voice in their lives.  I don't know how God wants to me work, but I know I can start with my precious students.  I ache to speak love and compassion into their lives, yet I must be as aggressive as a badger and as patient as an ant.  My preaching will not be from the pulpit, but the sharing of my heart and soul to people who need hope and love.  And yes, I have to think about you, and not me so much.

  So I am going to purposefully, tentatively, walk in my father's, my Father's, shoes, that I might be more like him.  I realize that a rejection of being like my earthly father made it harder to be like my Heavenly Father.  I am not ready to jump out of an airplane...yet..., but when I do, if I do, I will be proud to do it because I will be following in my father's footsteps  And by so doing, in my Father's footsteps as well.

It is time

The time has come.  I have wasted enough time, though I can feel and see God's hand at work in this time that has passed.  Perhaps it is merely TIME now, as opposed to a mistake.  Does not God fashion us in his Time, honing us to perfection in the right moment?
  My family is not falling apart, and yet it feels misshapen.  My wife is in the doldrums and I am blazing ahead, but...  I have lost the respect of my family, if I ever had it.  When I consider my own mother and father, and my siblings, I see that I do not want the respect of fear from my family, whether it be fear of disappointment or fear of retribution.  I want the respect that God desires of me.  I do not want the same amount or level as God; I am not so full of hubris.  But I want the same flavour.  Respect borne out of love, devotion, and appreciation for the position I have in my family.  But God earned his position through his love for us, by his creation and sacrifice and ever-lasting care.  So how am I to earn my family's respect now?
  The only guide I have, the best one, really, is the Saviour himself.  First, he sacrificed everything: his exalted position, his life, his time. He surrendered his entire being to God first, and through that surrender to his people. Second, by surrendering himself to his Father, he set the example for us, his beloved children, in how one is to live life.  This I must do.  This I will do.

  It is small and petty, and almost unworthy of mention, but I have surrendered my online gaming accounts to everything.  I do not have the time to devote to be any good at them, really, and what worth are they when I am dead and gone?  Who that I truly admire as men and women of God spend their time in such a pursuit?  So if I am to be respected, must I follow in their example.  It is TIME.

  Time to truly devote myself to God.  Time to spend time where the time God created is worth being spent.  Time to write, time to correspond, time to spend with people, time to invest in people.  Time to invest in my children, and in my wife, and in my community.  Time to be who I was made to be, and settle for nothing else.  How much TIME I have wasted... No, not wasted.  Although the slough of clay off a potter's wheel is unused and tossed out, it had to be there to remove in the first place.  It is simply time.

  I will be writing more often, pouring time into useful pursuits.  I hope it will be of use to you.

Heartache

I take pains to keep my identity hidden; it's is frivolous, really, since most people who read this know who I am. But there is a semblance of dignity here, of anonymity that allows me to post the cries and passions of my heart. I haven't posted for ages, mostly because of a lack of time and energy. But I still have a small hope that maybe this blog, at times, speaks to people and gives them a stronger Hope.

I generally post out of the passion of my heart, and, in a sense, this post is such. But this time, I thought I'd post my cry to my God. This post is not for you. This is for me. Yet, if God in his wisdom uses this for you, then glory to him that the prayer of a weak-eyed man makes a difference:

Dearest Saviour, why do you torture me so? I have such passions of love and hope, yet I am tongue-tied and torn. You have given me such a cautious spirit, but the prudence means so much is left unsaid. Would it be so wrong, God, to speak unfiltered from the heart? Would it cause so much evil?

Yet, I know the answer, God. We are not called to live selfish lives, prostituting our hearts to any. Rather we are called to speak with psalms and hymns, words of compassion and hope. To speak unfiltered is to speak without you, without the wisdom you have given me in the few years I have had on this earth. But how, Lord, to I conquer these burning emotions within me? I have so little time before I will lose them again...

But it is not about me, is it? It is not about my passion, but yours. When I speak and act from my own heart, throwing care and caution to the wind, I neglect you and bear the evils that come from that stupidity. If I speak and act as you will, however, then I will be a blessing and a hope. Maybe I was not supposed to speak yet. Maybe it is not time. Maybe it will never be.

Lord, teach me to be patient for the end of days. Make your patience the bricks and mortar of my heart. Make your wisdom the source of my words. Teach me to live for them, and not for me. That is why I am here, isn't it? So mold me in your image, dear Lord. And thank you, for those few, those precious few.

This was not for you. It was for me. But who knows God's plans, eh?

On death

What do you do when you find that everything inside is dead? When the world seems to cry out for the extermination of your soul? The darkness creeping in, threatening to choke the breath from your body...
   What do you do? You wake up. Humanity views death in all the wrong fashions. We fear it and hide from it, but is death not necessary for life to be. My Lord died so that I would have the hope to live with him; sometimes I have to die in order to live again for him. There are things within a man that must die so that new life can begin. Consider...a virus. A virus infects you, often through no fault of your own. Perhaps you were simply not aware that your friend was sick when you finished off his drink. In order for you to live the virus must die. It must be eradicated viciously to keep your body whole. And yet, there long remains in your body the memory of the evil, an immune system that remains wary of further attack.
   And so...there is hope. We believe some truths to be self-evident, but some of those beliefs are simply wrong, the warping of God's truth. They seem so close to right, yet we oft times learn the dark paths these seemingly sweet ideals lead us down. And yet...if we dare to listen, if we suffer the pain of refitting our ideals, an unwarping of our hearts, then we just might walk in a brighter sun than ever before.
   Sometimes death is required in order for a better life to begin...

Hope

   This blog is called "Hope for the Homeless", a voice in the wilderness of lostness on this earth that I and others like me live in.    It is to give hope to others...but what about me?  I want to give up, to run away and hide.  I want to do anything but face my day-to-day task of inspiring the young people I teach.  It feels so hopeless, like trying to force a horse to drink who continually denies his thirst.  I understand better now why the youth of the USA is so lost: we perpetuate our culture, our downward spiral through our educational outlook.  I see desperation and hopelessness everyday amoung the staff, much more so there than the students.  So many are good teachers who are hamstrung at every turn by the blindness of lawmakers and defense attornies.  Many give up because it is just too hard.
   But that's why you sent me here, isn't it God?  Because you made me too dependent on you to ever give up.   You created a slowly turning prepetual motion machine that sees the reality of your power, your strength, and your love for the people you created.  If I can give up, give in to your love and sight, truly trust you regardless of the cost, then I will see your light shine... I know.  I go home with so little hope but every day you produce new ideas, new strategies, and a new love.  I do not have hope in myself, but I hope in my Saviour to work his miracles.  With or without me.

Another day to hope

  Why did God make me this way?  So many days, so many, many days, I wanted to just give up and walk away.  Strike the curr that wounded me, walk out on the child that scorned me, give up on the people that won't listen....so many times.  I have been angry a hadnful of times, but it never lasts.  Bitterness, yes, but even then...

  I lashed out once or twice, true.  But I can't help but look at the Creator who never gave up on humanity.  There are those beyond saving, perhaps, but Christ never gave up on me....even when I think I've buried the last nail in my coffin.  So how can I give up?  How can I throw in the towel?  Jeremiah reminded me that whatever happens, no matter how painful it is, the Redeemed will win in the end; God will make sure of it.  And if he is for us, who can be against us?  

  Remember, dear children, the love of our Father in Heaven and his hope for you.  Can you do any less and give up on people?  If God, who knows our hearts, has such hope for us screwed up ones, how can we do any less for others we know so little about?  Hope for another day.... every day.

Hope in the desert

I used to wonder why it is that so many great writers were really messed up. Drunkeness usually scoots to the front, just ahead of depression. Maybe that's because they are so often linked. If you're depressed enough, for long enough, you eventually say, "Well, I certainly can't get any worse! Why not drink myself into oblivion? At least then I won't know how depressed I am!" Never works though. You wake from the stupor, expel your body-poison to more poignantly feel the sting of the spirit-poison. And things aren't any better. Except....while you were drunk...at least then.....

In that moment of absolute bottomness, you feel your humanity so strongly that you understand just what a hellhole you are in. But....we are the people of Christ. We are the light of the world, the bright progeny of the Holy God. So we do not give in, we do not drink deep of the delusions of this world to find oblivion. To the wonder and amazement of all, we seek out the hellholes; we wallow in the abyss and embed ourselves in sorrow. We bury ourselves in the muck and decay of the world's worst fears without fear. You see, we know something they do not and we possess the thing the people of this world yearn for: God's secret wisdom.

Do you know of his secret? Have you heard it? My dear children, do not listen to the lie that our secret is just a fairy tale, an imagining to make up for the lack of substance to our lives. God's secret wisdom, his great mystery, is life. It gives us the freedom to delve into the deep shining brightly with all the love of heaven. The light of the Mystery purifies and sears into the flesh of those buried in the muck and decay. It shows them the True Light that offers a way to shine in the pit and never get sucked under. Dear ones, do not despair. It is in the darkness of life that the Light of the Mystery is the most clear.

Making a house home

There are those who spend their whole life in one house. Though they are few, they never ask the question: how do we make a house a home? Home is synonymous with the actual house they dwell in; since they never have more than two (their own and their parents'), that definition works. The people, the scenery, the buildings are seen to change from time to time, but most are slow enough to be assimilated into the feeling of home.

But what about the rest of us? How do the wanderers make a home? In the Laura Ingalls books, there was a little china doll that was placed on the mantle to mark a house a home. That was when the Ingalls children knew that they were staying put for awhile. Others in this world need to have a meal with invited guests to mark a house home. Some feel the need to decorate: putting up family pictures is a common choice in that definition.

I have been in many dwellings, fewer than many of my friends yet more than many, many others. Those dwellings have been in four different continents and numerous varieties of culture. I always felt that I would never have a home. Perhaps, if I was alone, that would be alright. I have a family, and that makes it a very different problem. My family needs a place to nest, to rest themselves, to work, a place to call their own domain. Maybe that's the key to this conundrum: once you are able to define your space and mark it as your own on a permanent (as far as you are aware) basis, then you are home. For adults, that would include a job, the location where you provide for your domain, as well as kitchens, living rooms, studys, etc. For children, all they need is a treehouse: a few planks to stash their stuff, sleep, and live.

Home. As soon as I find a place to call home for a little while, I feel the urge to be moving again, to find out if I can live in a new home, and learn what they have. Perhaps this time, I can explore the nuances of this culture, embed myself and my family in it. Then, maybe, it'll be more like home.

If only we knew..

So you go to the store to buy some milk. It's a great walk: the grass is green and freshly cut. The sun is shining and there is gentle breeze to cool you off. "Wow. I'm so glad that I decided to walk instead of drive," you say. Just at that moment, a car comes racing down the road, skids out of control, and crashes into a telephone pole just in front of you. The driver crawls out of the car, bleeding profusely. He gasps once, breathing his last at your feet. Still glad you're on that walk?

What do we know about the future? We count the grass and sun as blessings and the dead man as a curse on our walk, ruining what was so pleasant a few seconds before. We wish, because of the horror of the crash, that we had never gone on that walk. But what if you had driven instead? Would you have been in that crash? Maybe...

There is an assurance that Christians hold, a confidence in the future that I hold dear. As Paul said, "To live is Christ, to die is gain". We can enjoy the grass and air, appreciating the goodness God has created, but we can do it without fear of its removal. Were the loveliness to be replaced with a mangling disaster, the Christian can live for Christ..or die, and gain the reward of heaven, thankful that his earthly task is completed. Do you have that confidence, the seal on your life that brings release from worry and anxiety?

Take a look at the God of Abraham and Adam: he is offering you a chance at peace and life.

Learning to fly

Life is such an awesome responsibility. Heavy with the weight of the past, fraught with anxiety about the future, and the continuous pressure of the present, so many trudge along in confusion trying to look like they know where they're going, gone, and are. We see lives lived greatly, mightily that give us hope in our own future. We hope to see such greatness in our own lives. But what about those great people? They certainly looked like they walked with surety.

The lives of great men and women, those that are truly great in mind and deed, are so because they use the wisdom of the past and live in the present, hoping for the future. They recognize their place in the cogs of eternity's clock, and just try their best to fulfill it. Gandhi would certainly be recognized as great, and yet he lived only with what he needed for the day, without storing up great security for his future. He did what he felt was required, and let that be enough. Abraham Lincoln was often weighted down by his choices, but he chose and moved firmly forward, hoping that his choices would create the future he dreamed of.

The Taoists look to nature for truth, and they've got it halfway right. The elements of nature live in the now, but they do not leave the wisdom of the past nor shirk the deeds to secure their future. Little birds learning to fly only get one chance: if they fall out of the nest, they're usually dead (or soon to be). And yet birds learn to fly all the time, stretching their wings when they are big enough, soaring when they are strong enough. They learned to depend on their mother when they are young, when there is no need to fly. When the time comes, they try, they leap, and they sometimes fall. They are not thinking of their future; they only know it is time to fly.

I wish our children were taught in the same fashion. I wish they could stretch out their wings simply because if it time, without worrying about the past or the future. Part of our human thought, however, brings guilt and anxiety too close to be forgotten. And yet, those that fall from the nest also live the fate of humanity: the chance to try again. Perhaps not to succeed at the same task, but maybe, just maybe, if they really want to, to succeed in another place.

Walking on water

It takes such courage and confidence to step out and walk on that less-traveled road. Some people seem to have the truth with them, so that when they step out and take a different road it is a blessing. Others seem to always take the wrong way. But in a world where everyone tells you to watch out and not rock the boat, when is it time to dive into the water and yell, "It's alright! I can swim!"

So often I feel like I'm the guy in the boat trying to swim on land because I don't want anyone to worry. So instead of going where I belong, I rock the boat in my fiendishly savage attempts to conquer land-swimming. Maybe I'm not supposed to swim at all! But you see, there it is. If you are in the boat with a bunch of people that teach everyone to jump into the boat, to safety, you have to wonder if you're just crazy or one of the few sane.

Just when I think I understand, doubt rushes in like a cold winter wind: "Maybe you're right, but if you're wrong, you'll drown." I dunno, God: will I sink or swim? Or are you trying to teach me to walk on water?

Looking at blogs

Maybe I was a bit harsh. Maybe people blog because they are just searching for someone to hear them. We are told that the world is getting smaller, and we feel and see it as the digital age pulls the drawstrings of the world tightly into small bags. And yet, with all the claustrophobia we expect to feel, we still feel very much alone in the world. However easy communication and travel may be, the problem of figuring out who we are and what we are supposed to do with it is still tremendously difficult. Perhaps blogging is a way of screaming into the wind, throwing ourselves into the melee of voices hoping that someone will hear and understand us.

And willing to prostitute ourselves to do it.

And this blog?

So, after putting most bloggers into categories, where does this one fit? Well, most likely it's a Worshipper. I hope, though, that it contains something of the Reporter as well, producing some truth that is virtuous and honourable. Here you will find no pictures, and no prostitution. My hope is that this blog will be a service to someone, to the "homeless souls wandering the world". Reporters take note: I am not speaking of people who wander the streets without a roof over their head. Such people indeed need help and love....but this blog is not about them.

This blog is the inner heart of a wandering soul who has heard the cry of other wandering souls, a cry for hope, for security, for a home to rest and be at peace. We human beings were created (yes, created) with an innate longing for another place, not in space but in our souls. We long to be in union with the one who loved us first, so long ago. And yet, we are blinded by the savagery of our choices and those of the people around us, lead into the darkness and away from our security by the Evil Schemer's designs.

So let this blog stand as a voice of one who knows the way home, who cries out in the wilderness to speak of the one who will lead us home.

Why Blog?

This is my first post on Blogger. I have had other blogs, for various reasons, but being a recent Google convert, I decided to hop myself on over to Blogger as well. But I started thinking: why do people blog at all?


Of those that blog, people usually fall into one of a few categories. For simplicity's sake, we'll classify them as Reporters, Prostitutes, and Worshippers.

The Reporters

Reporters blog for one chief reason: to tell their audience about the world as they see it. Often rallying around a cause, they will post numerous pictures and write detailed accounts of their experiences and opinions. They feel that their opinion matters, but more importantly their cause matters. Unfourtunately, the only people who like to read these blogs are those who already support their cause or know them personally. To everyone else, it's just additional spittle in the rain of the world speech. It's too bad, really, because their cause is sometimes noble and valiant, worthy of recognition of the individual's involvement. But whether it has a virtuous sheen or not, it should be noted that these people feel their cause is important, and thus, they blog.

The Prostitutes

Prostitutes suffer from a common delusion. When I was younger, I used to make it my goal to sneak peeks into people's journals. I figured that if they were going to write their innermost thoughts down, then leave those thoughts in a book lying on their bed in their room, they actually wanted me to read it. As I became a man, I learned that these thoughts were written down for them to read themselves. So it would be wrong of me to read them because I am violating their privacy. Fair enough.

These blogging Prostitutes, however, write journals that are flagrantly personal and public, lying their innermost parts prostrate for the world to gaze on. They tear off their outermost garments of emotion and expose their private thoughts so the world knows what they are like underneath. Then, when you actually respond to their exposure, they react painfully like they have been violated. Well, as the monkey once said to the banana, "If you didn't want me to eat you, you should never have taken your skin off. It's much harder to eat you with your skin on."

But why? Why do decent people of various ages expose themselves like this? I can only think that they are trying to fulfill a basic human need: to be seen and heard. We have been taught that what is inside of us is special and important, but honestly most people would rather watch the news than hear about your thoughts and feelings. So in exposing their innards, blogger Prostitutes open themselves up and hope that someone cares about them enough to read and understand them.

The Worshippers

Worshippers center around a thing, an idea. They are like Reporters, but rather than discussing a cause, they pay homage to an object or idea. Porsche blogs, baby blogs, Apple-is-great blogs, and others like them call upon all readers to see how great and amazing their idol is, and may death and dismay fall upon anyone who dares to disagree. They have no interest in unbiased reporting, not even attempting to show truth as the Reporter would. Their only goal is to bring all others to worship the same icon of beauty and perfection that the blogger cherishes. These are incredibly boring and useless...unless, of course, you agree and follow in their idolatry.

So, what kind of blogger are you?

Control and Fear

The weak fear that which they cannot control. They feel that they are powerless to fight the people and events that seem to swing back and forth in the cavern of their lives, changing it without asking for permission. So they hide within the catacombs, seeking to escape the pendulum that relentlessly carves new niches. Some hide so deep that the pendulum's silence effects can no longer be felt...most of the time. And when it rocks the foundations of their burrow they scream out in fear, striking at anything within reach, clutching their dearest possessions--those few things that are small enough to hold on to.
   The strong control that which they fear. They feel they are powerful enough to contain the people and events that seem to etch out a new future in the cavern of the lives. They pack the catacombs with knowledge and power to keep the pendulum swinging where they will it. As it carves out the niches they desire, they seek to bring greater weapons into their realm; the silent thwacking of the pendulum is the music of their souls. But at times a great force wrenches the pendulum from their grasp and each new surface that is struck explodes with a power exponentially greater than the power buried there, opening new wounds that had not been understood before.
   But the truth is far beyond these. Both fear and control are relentless taskmasters, drivng us into a frenzied whirlwind if we hold on. But the funny thing about a whirlwind is that if we let go, we are free. If we understand that the cavern in which we live is simply one small part of the great honeycomb of time and space, we can be freed from the vicious circle that entombs us. However, we must take care that when we are flung out of the deep, we take time to study the honeycomb. We will then find the truth, the source of all our wisdom, if we are brave and humble enough to see it. If we do not, if we screw our eyes shut or obstinately look only in the direction we choose, we will miss the great wonder.
   So look with me for a moment, and see the great mystery unfold. For in every cavern there is a great wind, filling every available space. When neccesary it is a gale, but at other times it is a gentle whisper. The blowing of the wind across the surface reveals a face. It is the face of the one who possesses the winds that drive the pendulum. It is the visage of he who fashioned the caverns, etching his countenance on each surface. And it is he who catches the far-flung ones and reveals his face.
   And when I look on the Great One, Lord of Hosts, I see that his face is littered with blotches of brown and pus-filled yellow where the Evil One has been at work, distorting the dwellers and clouding their minds. Then the Lord's eyes fill with tears, glistening with blood-drops. As they trail down his face, the path that is left in its flooded wake has been cleared of blemishes--made new. The winds are calm for a moment, slowed by the passing of the tears. Then, slowly but surely, they start the pendulums again.
   Then he gently lowers me down, safely back in my cave. My pendulum returns to its job of carving out my life. I quaver, unsure whether to run in fear or attempt to control the swinging. And I feel the cool breeze.... I climb the wall of my domicile to get a stronger breeze. I do not run, I do not hide, I keep my hands calm. Instead, I watch as the Great Wind etches out my future. And I am at peace.