Christmas?

I thought I saw a flash of light there for second. A flicker almost vanishing before I could capture it with my eye.

It's as if Christmas had been strapped to a giant rocket en route for the turn of the year and there was nothing I could do to slow it down. It would seem that Ol' St. Nick has turned in his whimsically archaic, mammal driven, flying contraption that has flown threw children's stories and imaginations for decades for a metal tube of flying, exploding keratinocyte propane and fiery wonderment bouncing through the month of December at mach 6 leaving nothing but a smoldering wake of broken boxes, torn wrappings, pine needles scattered about our living room floors and the disillusionment that questions whether commercialization really is the best way. The only way.

Yes my calendar was full for months. Especially December. These boyhood memories of Christmas set free in my noggin but caged within the inescapably accelerated, contextualization of my adulthood sensibilities.

But I wanted to do so much more. I wanted to ice skate underneath pine trees adorned with blinking Christmas lights. I wanted to snowshoe on a remote mountain somewhere with only the steady crunching sounds of my feet falling through the thick layer of snow and the blinking and unadulterated stars above to keep me company. You should see the stars. I wanted to walk through a mountain town decorated in such a way that only small, quant mountain towns can pull off. I wanted to sip hot chocolate as I sat at the base of a big, blinking and beautiful Christmas tree adorned with the eclectic ornaments acquired over the years, each telling a story of their own. Imagining what wonderful surprises were trapped within the cardboard walls of the boxed gifts underneath the tree. I didn't even give the holiday staple "A Christmas Story" a proper viewing this year.

Each of these thoughts having the canned response, "maybe next year" clipping closely at it's heals. Ah yes. "Maybe next year." It's a phrase you start hearing as a child from your parents. It's a phrase you learn to hate only to realize that you've been uttering it to yourself ever since 20 or so.

In spite of it all – it was a good Christmas. For an adult anyway. The snow storm that hit Denver just before the holiday shopping rush was just right. It was incredibly bothersome initially of course but it did serve to slow everyone down. Forced everyone to look each other in the eye. Take long sips of soup while watching romance movies. Help each other push their cars out of the snow. Forcing people to create makeshift snow shoes out of bookshelves and bungie cord. You know the drill. It's a wonderful thing, getting cabin fever right in the middle of the city. We were stranded together – my friends and I – some would say by choice but we might I've said that it was for the sake of our own sanity.

I got to spend Christmas with the guys. That's what my family is called now, "the guys." Because that's all there is. I can sense the lack of a female presence. But it's ok. For now anyway. We manage. In the name of memory Dad plots his course, perhaps to uphold tradition and perhaps to remember what it was like before mom died. Our Christmas was as it has been for as long as I can remember. No, there was no squealing of boyish delight at a newly discovered treasure under the tree and there wasn't an early, crack-of-dawn kind of wake up call but there was a familiarity about it all. And for this I'm thankful for Dad's unwavering dedication to what has been referred to for years as, "Christmas as usual."

I imagine the idea of Christmas is simply taking on a sort of hibernation. Like a big bear or something. For a reason of which I can't be entirely sure of. Perhaps it lies in wait for that day when the inner child comes running through this facade of responsibility and rational like a thin wall made of paper to proclaim in a loud and impish tone, "Surprise! You miss me!? You thought I was gone right? But here I am!"

And then again, and I suspect this is true either way, what Christmas is truly lying in wait for is the day when I have children of my own. When they rush in to show me the Christmas tree ornaments they made in school, or the day when I get to play with them in the snow or recite Christmas stories to them as they fall asleep – I imagine it's then when I'll relive my own memories as a child through my own children. Anticipating with them all the wonders that this magical day holds for them. I suppose that idea alone holds enough reason to be excited for the future days of Christmas.

Another Run In With The Law

I suppose it's safe to assume that the less that takes place here, on this blog, signifies an abundance of happenings in my world out there. So don't make the mistake of assuming that my life is boring ok?

Take this afternoon for example. I make a bad judgement call behind the wheel of my trusty Honda Civic and cause an accident involving a motorcyclist. No one was hurt thankfully. I did get a mandatory court date for not having updated proof of insurance. I've got insurance but I just don't have updated proof of it.

I'm sensing a pattern here. This court date oddly enough closely matches my run in with the law last year. And it's for the same reason! Granted with a little less fan fare.

Scattered Thoughts - Because that's all that makes sense to me right now

1. If someone where to ask me how I was doing these days I would have to say that a week ago might as well be years ago, tomorrow can't come soon enough and today holds enough to think about for a lifetime.

2. It's a terrifying thought - that Jesus really means what he says.

3. I find it interesting how often God does actually listen to my internal monologue. I'm reminded of a time, perhaps a year ago, when I read in "Red Moon Rising" about people smuggling Bibles somewhere - can't remember where. I remember thinking about how cool that would be. I find this interesting in light of recent events.

4. Hope is so powerful. Hope has power in this world.

5. Fear is so binding. Blinding.

6. I've spent all this time growing up only to find that God want's me to return to my childhood.

7. There's been an ever intensifying correlation in my mind between Christianity and running head long and full speed into a wall of fire. How self destruction can spell out certain life is beyond me.

8. Dying for God is one thing. Asking me to give up that 4 hour time slot that I've designated as my own time for someone else is something entirely different.

9. Right now I find that there is so much to say and not enough words to say it with.

Untitled

In my estimation, life is a sundry collection of meandering discoveries and relearned truths.

Nice Tat J.C.

In conversing with a friend recently the question of what kind of tattoo would Jesus have if he had one came up....because what else would we be talking about right?

So would his sun darkened, leathered skin display the holy ideologies of God's directing or would it simply be the latest catchy phrase of the B.C. Jewish culture? Would he wind up getting something that seemed cool at the time but would be irrelevant and possibly dated after a few years? Think swirling Tasmanian Devil equivalent of his time. Or possibly an 80's styled rose.

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As he leans over to multiply a few fish or restore the crumpled leg of a broken man his robe slips down ever so slightly revealing the phrase "No Fear" emblazoned across the small of his neck. The onlooking crowd gasps then snickers to themselves knowing that anyone with such a tattoo could only wish they never got the thing done in the first place. The disciples look at each other with looks speaking to their ever increasing doubt that this really is who they hope it is. Questions pop up in their minds like "Is this really the Son of God?" or "If Jesus is the Son of God couldn't he have used his powers to take a peak at the future cultural landscape and discover that such a tattoo would cease to be cool a few years down the road?"

Jesus would quickly recover I'm sure. Possibly muttering something about being young and stupid or creating some sort of distraction with a well placed miracle of some sort.

"Hey look! More fish!"

I'm sure this wouldn't wash the image of a tattoo splayed across Jesus' neck from the disciples minds entirely. It would only serve to delay the inevitable. Later on as the disciples inch closer to the fire, fighting off the chill of a dessert night, the topic would resurface.

"So....."

...awkward silence would build as if to gather it's strength, eventually culminating into a statement that spoke to what was on everyone's mind...

"...what was that on Jesus' neck?" Grunts of agreement to the question's relevance would be heard all around the camp fire.

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And I'm thinking about all the Christiany types of things I've seen people tattoo on themselves. I don't think Jesus would relish the idea of a cross enough to make it on his list of good things to have tattooed. The tried and true Jesus fish thing would really just fall short. WWJD could really come across as self aggrandizing. Not that Jesus didn't have every right to self aggrandize but I just don't think that's a route he would have taken. Come to think of it, I wonder if Jesus ever asked his disciples when they were about to do something stupid, "come on guys....what would I do?"

A scripture reference would probably really work for Jesus since he was always quoting them. Especially since he could just come up with something new on the spot if nothing that had been written up to that point suited his fancy.

Would Jesus get a tattoo? Who knows. Lately I've been picturing him with wooden ear rings but that's just me.

I wonder if guys in the 70's pictured him with an afro? I guess that's the thing about Jesus. Being without a face, we're able to interpret his appearance in whatever way makes the most sense to us. I think he's able to bridge social, cultural and economical boundaries in this way.

Take this picture for example:



Pretty standard really. It's funny how the most widely excepted portraits of Jesus, in reality, couldn't be further from the truth. For many people the picture of a middle class, well groomed, white Jesus is the most comfortable way to see him. Whatever works right?

Then there's this one:



Now this is a bit too Back Street boysish for my taste but I'm sure it makes sense to someone.

Or what about this one:



This comes to you curtousy of CNN who somehow figured out what Jewish guys looked like back in the day. Think confused caveman. Personally I find this portrait kind of ridiculous. It's not working as far as I'm concerned.

There's the black Jesus:



You've got the latest rendition:



and then there's this guy:



This was brought to my attention courtesy of Kate. This depiction actually answers a number of questions:

1) Jesus would indeed get a tattoo
2) We now know what tattoo he would get
3) We also get a pretty good idea of what Jesus would look like were he born in a trailer park somewhere in rural Oklahoma.

I guess I could show you portraits all day. Images that have, over the years, popped up in our gallery of icons. Man's ongoing attempts to put a face to someone who at times seems more like legend than historical fact. Then again at times Jesus seems more real to me than anything else in this world.

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I'm not sure how I wound up showing you portraits of Jesus but there it is. I guess this whole post is driven by my underlying desire to think of Jesus in a humanistic way. I believe theirs a lot of tension between Jesus' deism and his humanism. It's easy to sum him up by what he's been recorded saying in Scripture. I don't think this is a wholistic picture of God's Son however. It's the really important parts of course but his day to day life is all but lost between the cracks.

I guess this is me trying to fill in those cracks.

It's Fall...and winter kind of

While it does feel like fall it really felt a bit like winter this past weekend as we went up to the mountains. The pictures will suffice in the explanation of why.

Beautiful indeed. The milky white interrupted with explosions of intermittent veins of fiery yellow leaves. It was one of those trips that you couldn't have planned if you tried. No one had an agenda and no one was in a rush and everything seemed to fall into place. It turns out that lazy meandering conversations, mountain coffee houses, snow and yellow leaves packages surprisingly well.

I love autumn.

FWD:

Have you ever met someone who seems to be a great person?

FWD: George Bush Prays for Peace

Someone you actually like? Someone, after developing a reasonable comfort in your relationship, you decide to initiate email contact with for the first time.

FWD: Emergency recall on Baby Formula

After a few pleasant cybernetic interactions a pattern emerges.

FWD: Is Your Virus Filter Fighting Against You?

After what would seem like, thousands of email forwards, jokes and internet hoaxes later you realize with great trepidation that you've been the victim of over communication. Except its not even communication. It's more like pollution. Inbox pollution. Communicative abuse.

FWD: Who Have You Prayed For Today?

FWD: Rock Star Believes In God

Countless emails emerge describing Bill Clinton's close encounters with marijuana, a local hero's funeral in Lakota, Swiffer WetJet warnings and a withdrawal of said Swiffer warning after finding out that the whole thing was a hoax but not before sending it to thousands of recipients. And you have to ask yourself...where is Lakota anyway?

I guess I'm here to tell you that I'm the latest victim of the ongoing communicative abuses of our society.

Jesus The Dentist

MMMMMMM...minty. This was the thought that entered and exited my mind susinctly after a 3 inch needle was jammed into my jaw rendering unmerited pain throughout the face.

And then numbnesss.

You know, dental work isn't a bad racket. For the ones behind the needle of course. The deal goes something like this: If you ram needles the size of those fat toothpicks you can get at old 70's diners into my mouth and use tiny hooks to pry my gums away from my teeth and spray me in the eyeball with lukewarm water and warp my cheeks with over powered vacuum tubes I will give you no less than $487 dollars.

I do believe the only appropriate response from any dentist worth his dental school tuition will replay with an emphatic "with pleasure."

I write all of this with the standard post dental visit two-faced feeling. Half of my face - just fine. The other half, well it doesn't exist. I can see it in the mirror of course but...you get the idea. This leads me to run my tongue along the numb inner side of my cheek and flick it off the edge of my mouth making a juicy, flapping sound.

It's not that I enjoy the sound, it's just that I want to make sure it's still there.

All of this , for no explainable reason, brings me back to a line of thinking I had early this week. It could be easily stated that one who truly follows the ways of Jesus has some sort of twisted addiction to pain and discomfort. I find that the more I want to follow Jesus the more he introduces me to these things that terrify me the most. It's a process of deconstruction I suppose. You find that you've been running away from these things your whole life and never knew it until you walk beside Jesus and he mentions some of them. Which makes me think that Jesus is somewhat socially inept. I mean that isn't exactly pleasant dinner conversation. I wonder if Jesus ever talked about the weather?

And then he tells you to run straight for those terrifying things in your life. "Face your fears" type of thing.

Which leads me to the idea that Jesus isn't a very cozy person. If you think he is you probably don't know him all that well. If you think you want to know him just be prepare for stinging needles and a vacuum thrusted down your throat as a warm and calculated voice tells you to "tilt your head and close your mouth cause this is going to get messy."

Snow Mass

A couple of months ago I went on a backpacking trip with some friends. I was good times. Anyway I just got around to putting the photos together.

By The Way...

I quite my job. I'm working at Starbucks and I'm doing freelance design work in hopes to sustain my wildly extravegant lifestyle. It's a strange transition. I don't work around a regular schedule. And my paycheck is as equally irregular. Its kind of scary I suppose. I felt this was the right step though. You can always second guess I guess. Even if at the time you were certain beyond all shadow of a doubt that it was the right course of action. There's always room for doubt. Ideally hope sneaks it's way in a bit more often than the doubt but you can never be sure that's how things will turn out.

So I hope I dont wind up on the streets of Denver. I hope I can make my rent for next month. In theory I'll have more time to post here but, again, that's just a theory.

Weak

It's good to admit that you actually do need people when so often you lie to yourself, saying you don't. It takes a lot of energy to be fortified against one's weakness. I'm not sure where that lie came from. This notion that self reliance is sustainable. "No man is an island." So they say.

I wonder when my idea of community became synonymous with the idea of weakness. And then in an ironic twist I realize that they probably are one in the same. That is to say, in community, individual weakness paves the way for communal strength. A strength and stability much stronger than anything you might have experienced out there on your own. It's funny how an eclectic concoction of weaknesses creates something very strong. A bunch of weak parts making up something complete.

Being vulnerable is dangerous we must admit. It's not something most people probably relish. And yet that's what we desire to be. It's hard to deny that something in you longs to be known. And the only way to be known is to be vulnerable. To depend on others.

Mix all this in with the fact that people hurt us. It's a sad truth, yes. The instruments that deliver the most excruciating and destructive pain are the very things that bring us closer to life. It's an unfortunate paradox to be sure. Much of life is made up of these unfortunate paradoxes. We're left with a decision: Shall we deny the truth that we actually need others and live what would initially seem like a life of relative ease and comfort? Some might tell you that you may not be living life at all should you take this route. Or shall we take company in the presence of the weak exposing our brokeness and, in effect, taking in a much deeper breadth of life. The potential cost is severe but it may pale in comparison to the life you could potentially live.

It's funny how often the idea of being strong and courageous drive our actions. This often molds our ideas of and draws us into independent living. I find that a relationshal life lived in the context of vulnerability takes more courage than any other way of life I can think of. And sadly, so often it takes more courage than I can summon.

Untitled

Hear the prayer of the broken. Know the voice of the one who fails you time and again. The one who grows intimate with the force of his own self-destructive nature. Moving deeply into the heart of something much darker than your company. Knowing the life of one who embraces a movement away from your fold. Away from your heart. Failing. You know this as well as I. Remove this life far from me. This spirit that looms overhead and deep within. As far as the distant points on the horizon, tear this evil from me. Leaving not even shards of the old. Nothing but newness and life. Bring conviction as a testimony to your whisper. Do not be silent. Your recompense is thorough and will be complete. Do your work masterfully. Do your work.

Today

At some point in your life, you have to come to terms with the fact that, in just about every way, nature is a much better designer than you are.

-Kalle Lasn

Found in the book "Design Anarchy." From the looks of it, this is a must read for any designer.

A Swaying Suitcase Full Of Angst

Airports. There is no better place to witness our deep-seated nuances and idiosyncrasies. Splayed out like a genetic & socially crafted deck of cards for all humanity to see. This is, in my mind, a perpetual source of pleasure.

The young and old. Rich and poor. People of all nations and walks of life. No where else can one go to catch such a full breadth and variety of life in quite the same way. A million different paths crossing a million different stories. All collating here. It's where waiting lines form and patience tested. More often than not the more noble virtues take a back seat to one's own personal convenience. This being the nobel cause on everyone's mind of course. Pushing and shoving. Unsavory words left lingering in the air after disputes irrupt and subside as quickly as they begin with the firm voices of those in charge announcing that no one is going anywhere soon, "So everyone just settle down now, OK?"

I'm flying standby. Initially this stood out as a good idea as it only set me back about $60. Initially. The problem was the airline I was flying only went to Palm Springs, a 3 hour misfire from my final destination of Escondido, CA. I knew this could add a little complexity to my trip. I also understood that taking the bus as an additive means of travel to get me to this final destination might add a few additional complications along the way. But depending on who you ask, one man's complication is another man's adventure.

That's all well and good until you find yourself neck deep in adventure with no signs of a way out.

The Palm Springs "International" Airport is little more than a plaintive outpost nestled somewhere in the middle of the Californian desert. In spite of my 9pm arrival, as soon as I stepped off the plane I was greeted by a blast of what could easily be described as the sweltering breath of an oven hard at work. After being in Colorado for so long it's hard to believe that the humid air other people breathe elsewhere in the States is really something you breathe so much as suffocate on. Needless to say I was instantly wet as much as I was discouraged at the idea of hiking through town under such conditions. Because I obviously wasn't going to pay the exorbitant prices the taxis charge for a negligible 3 miles worth of hiking. I am a Colorado boy after all.

If you can imagine a sweat drenched me walking through a deserted part of Palm Springs at 10 at night with a Cool Blue Ice Poweraid in one hand while dragging roller luggage in the other you might get a pretty accurate picture of what was going on at that point. I might add that it seems clear to me now that my luggage was designed to continually attempt to topple itself over. Especially at the most inconvenient of times. Add to this scene the expansive swath of lightless buildings of an industrial quality and a vacant blotch of desert beyond as far as I could see and you'll have the establishing shot for the events of the evening.

If I was honest with myself I really didn't have a clear plan in mind. Part of me believed that I could sleep at the bus station upon arriving until my 9:50 departure the next morning. The plan seemed simple enough albeit a little under thought.

What was earlier described as industrial soon turned into glamorous a mile into my sweltering hike. Resorts appeared out of seemingly nowhere. The Palm Mountain Resort abruptly appeared on the right hand side of the street. The chinsy blue under glow of the neon lights bouncing out of pools and bathing the cheap imitation Sphinxes in front of the resort was a welcome change in scenery. A bit strange, yes, but welcome. It wasn't long before casino/resort/club like establishments crowded in on either side of the street in The Middle of Nowhere, CA.

It was at this stage of my journey that I was introduced to "downtown" Palm Springs. I was marching through the epicenter of the Palm Springs tourist industry with my swaggering luggage in tow. I soon found company by way of window browsers, clubbers, street bums, and drunk people desperately trying to sound like Don Henley at a nearby open faced karaoke bar. Honestly I was slightly tempted to pound a Gin and Tonic and join the motley crew of 40-somethings in their attempts to capture the allusive lives of a Rock Star they probably dreamt about in their younger years.

Can you imagine singing the third chorus of "Desperado" in a town you just arrived at, with people you don't know in the middle of the California desert? I found the whole thing surreal even though I chose not to participate in the silly pass time I could never really understand.

It's just humorous to think about.

While I had directions downloaded from Mapquest – which were wrong – and about 10 different people telling me where the Greyhound bus station was – all varying slightly and at times completely contradictory – I could not find the station had my life depended on it. I had first taken a left when I should have taken a right per Mapquests direction bringing me to what I would later call a mile in the wrong direction. Up and down, back and forth I went crisscrossing Palm Springs like the distressed stitching on a broken down pare of chaps probably worn by the guys who discovered this forsaken stretch of land. Asking everyone I came in contact with: security guards, late night shoppers, cops and drunks, which may explain the contradictions in the directions I was given. I should say I tried to ask a cop. I guess the moral of the story is: Don't ask for directions from a cop who's in the middle of busting a couple of guys for possession. You won't get far.

Every time they told me with absolute certainty where this place was located and every time I felt I was getting closer. At some point I conceded to the fact that I had been beaten. I was burdened under the haunting idea that perhaps I'm just incredibly stupid. The notion that something is way easier than what you're making it out to be is a difficult notion to operate under. Especially at 1:30 in the morning. After dismissing the compulsion to simply plop down on the meticulously trimmed lawn of one of the local businesses and go to sleep I found myself checking into a Best Western.

And my margin of savings shrinks.

As I made my way down the Palm Springs strip the next morning, I kid you not, I saw the Greyhound bus sign about 500 feet away. Granted the building wasn't the largest or the most distinct structure around but I'm sure you could understand my consternation.

Oh and by the way, had I found the station the night before it wouldn't have mattered. IT WAS CLOSED!

A racially charged fight, a blood smeared phone, a severely delayed bus, a root beer float, a pack of cloves, 4 bottles of vending machine junk and 10 hours later I finally got to Oceanside at 7:00 in the evening. Apparently there was a fire on the highway which derailed the bus drivers plans on getting us to Escondido placing us in the next town over. This worked out fine in the end however. My day ended with a hot meal and pleasant conversation with a friend I've known for over half my life along with his very pregnant wife. Not a bad way to end the day at all.

It was a pleasant trip to be sure. A much needed vacation. It was good to see old friends. While I didn't really save a whole lot of money I did experience a little adventure along the way which, I think, makes it worth the cost.

Oh, and if you're ever in Palm Springs looking for something to do, I've got a few ideas.

Current Read

I'm reading a book called "Blood Diamonds" by Greg Cambell right now. It's incredible. I started the book Sunday evening and got all torn up inside. It's a weighty matter to be sure and it sent me into something of an introspective and poignant mood that demanded a response but left me at a loss in knowing what I really should or could do about the whole matter.

This is one of the most aggravating moods to be in by the way.

While I'm debating on whether or not to quote some of the book here I'll go ahead and assert that you really need to read the book. Inform yourself on the subject of conflict goods. The diamond industry influences most of us in light of the fact that at some point you're probably going to either receive a diamond or purchase one for someone else.

I'm going to hold off on quoting the book. While I could probably shock and horrify by telling you some of the stories Cambell came across first hand as he trekked through Sierra Leone, it would be more important for you to understand the context of the situation. Suffice it to say that even if one was to purchase a "conflict free diamond" you really have no idea where it came from as the whole identification system of a diamond's point of origin is a running joke.

One thing the book will do is paint a completely frustrating picture of how thorough and far reaching corruption can be as the victimized can quickly become the victimizer in such an arrantly corrupt and broken down state many of the African countries currently find themselves in.

Related Topics:

Boycotts

Art

Art moves. Bridges the gap. Fills the void. Brings together light and dark, beauty and hate. Uniting unexpected ends and shattering predictable means. Art fills the soul and challenges the mind. It often questions and seldom answers but always moves us along the journey. Its a sail to the wind, breath to the thought, motion to a stagnant mind and paints a truer picture of what we call life. Without art a voice of God would be silenced. The mountains would crumble to the plains, the ocean would puddle and the stars would fall from their throwns in the black canvas sky. Without art the heart would break and the mind would crack in the cage it would soon discover this life to be.

The Highlight

It's only 9:00 in the morning but I'm pretty sure I've already hit the highlight of my day.

I've paid off the credit card debt I've had since college.

Fear

I went on a 4 day backpacking trip with 17 people this past weekend. Not the ideal number to be backpacking with but surprisingly nothing went seriously wrong. Our trip leader is an engineer and detail oriented to a fault at times but honestly it was probably his attention to said detail that kept things smooth.

We climbed a 14,000 foot mountain called Snow Mass out near Aspen. Beautiful. Pictures will soon follow this post of course (providing they turned out) but suffice it to say that when you're standing in the shadow of God you tend sense something you may have missed back in the city.

It took three liters of water and plenty of swearing but I made it to the summit. I might add that I kind of forgot to eat which was a mistake that made itself readily apparent to me soon enough. Try hiking through snow on fatigued limbs while fighting the urge to spew what little you put into your stomach back out. Add to that the fact that I was fighting some mild diarrhea on the way back out the last day and you could say that I was a broken creature indeed.

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I experienced fear on this trip. I've never felt it quite the same way before. The day we made it to our 11,000 ft base camp I stood at the foot of this great monument we set out to conquer and I knew fear. The cold hard rock breaching the snow laced crown. Wind tearing across the heights, lifting wisps of snow high in the sky. From that distance it looked like little puffs of smoke. As if the peak chose to fire up a cigarette before the sun rested it's weary eye in the west. I know from past experience that when you see snow erupting off the peak by wind you can be sure it's blowing with combative force. It's nothing to smirk at.

I went to bed that night thinking about how frail humanity is. How untamed this wilderness was that we now found ourselves. As I crawled deeper and deeper into my sleeping bag, embracing the warmth that surrounded me, I could hear the wind tearing through the trees that night, across the crystal clear lake and up the massive peaks that loomed over our tents but underneath the brilliant stars that shone high above. I knew fear.

When the darkness in the forest at night takes hold in a way never known to the cities far below, you can see stars...many stars. Spiraling. Like celestial satellites. As if watching. Measuring. Like a billion mysterious eyes. A tension exists here. You can sense it in the cold. Warmth, the desired prize in the ongoing struggle to survive. As if nature's long fingers poke and search for a way into this frail humanity. Cracking and breaking. Protecting itself from our innate curiosity.

It's curious to me that this fear doesn't turn me away. Send me running into the embrace of a strictly urban existence. I suppose in a wildly unpredictable outcome it's this fear that draws me here. I guess fear isn't always a bad thing.

I'd imagine we'd be afraid of God if we stood in His shadow. It's a strange tension though. To be so afraid of something (or someone) but feel an intrinsic need to run toward it. I've come to understand that often fear is an element of respect. I respect the wilderness. I don't suppose I can hope for an equal respect in turn. After all I am pretty small. But as you reach the summit of a peak or the depths of a darkness you've feared for so long you learn that it's this respect that keeps you alive. Keeps the weights in the scale. You understand this unseen tension a little bit better and maybe realize it's what reminds you that you're truly alive.

CNN & Us

So do we control the media or does it control us? What we get fed at 5 and 10 at night...was that what we asked for?

I'm becoming progressively aware of the tension between what we call news and what we call entertainment. Meshed together in that ever present, grey, media blender we call our television. I wonder, in the world of media buy-outs, corporate ownership and media saturation, who's actually making the calls on what we hear, see and feel. Who makes the calls on our reality?

In the media's defense no one wants to come home after a long hard day of work and hear about how the world is going to hell in a hand basket. But where does that fall in line with the idea of painting an accurate and unbiased picture of the world in which we live?

Perhaps it has something to do with the idea of relevancy. So what's relevant to us? What directly effects us? As participants in the global community is there anything that happens on this planet that doesn't effect us in some fashion? To a certain degree.

An idealistic turn of events in my mind in regards to the news networks methods of broadcasting would be an initiative to really tell us what's going on in the world with a call to get involved in some way. If there's something going on in Uganda then that's what they tell us and they would follow that up with some information on how we could make a difference.

Maybe I'm being naive and overly optimistic.

The quicker the internet destroys television the better. But then again can the internet be bought?

Suspicion and paranoia take flight!

Thought #405

30 is the new 20.

Truth & Legislation

Kate posted a comment in return to the previous post that served as a catalyst in regards to this topic.

Are we relying on the government to enforce our point of view and/or enforce a so-called shift in paradigm in this country?

If all of a sudden the government outlawed abortion, prohibited gay marriage, forbad euthanasia and gratuitous sexuality, the use of marijuana, etc. etc. would America be a more God fearing nation?

If people looked more like Christians would they be any closer to being Christ followers?

What is the relationship between Truth and legislation? Love and legislation? Can they have a relationship?

I challenge the idea that legislating the WWJDs of politics brings us any closer to God. That it's anything more than a band aid on a gushing wound. I guess my under riding question is how do we reconcile the fact that we are the sons and daughters of God and our American citizenship?

I think what I'm really getting at is that perhaps maybe we've placed control and/or hope in the hands of the wrong entity.

Truth & Politics

I had some really good conversations with friends last night. Inevitably President Bush made his way into our discourse and specifically Bush's use of the terms "absolute truth" & "faith" in his speeches. Brett referred to an article/book that was recently published by the Former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright. She challenges the President's usage of such terms and voices concerns as to the visibility of his faith in general during his time in the office.

A staff member sent me an article today in regards to this issue. An article from the conservative right side of the issue.

I suggest reading the article before continuing.

It's pretty interesting. The idea of compartmentalizing our faith is ridiculous of course. If one holds to a Faith you would expect that to influence a person thoroughly. Influence every action and position. Politically, socially, economically, privately, publicly etc. etc. If this wasn't the case then I would seriously question whether the individual believes what he says he does. Whether you're talking to a Christian a Muslim or a Nazi. I would expect these individuals to be influenced thoroughly and inseparably by what they believed if they truly believed them.

I don't believe however that President Bush's call to war comes anywhere close to resembling "absolute truth" however. Just because someone tells you they were called to do something doesn't mean they were. Or that we should blindly except what ever that calling was as being true.

I also have a problem believing that God is universally on America's side. The whole idea is skewed. We're supposed to be on God's side...not the other way around.

Wether Albright would agree or not, I believe that Bush's faith should be visible in the actions he takes in leading this country. But I don't believe that the President should be able to use ideas like absolute truth to back up his actions without them being challenged by the church and/or anyone else.

Truth isn't a club you beat someone over the head with. It's not a manipulative tactic to be used to enforce a view or stance. Truth does not legislate well. I'm concerned that our use of truth has led to a certain arrogance in the church. A "we're right and you're wrong so deal with it" or "come over to our side" types of things. Truth isn't a weapon of mass intellectual dominance. It's a reflection of who God is and what he's told us in the past and continues to do so today.

When we divorce truth from love we will surely fail to fulfill Jesus' charge to "speak the truth in love." Further more if we wind up divorcing truth from Truth...that is to say separating the words spoken by God from the very nature and quality of God then we have clearly missed everything.

55+

I wrote this months ago. We were supposed to write from the perspective of a senior citizen.

I've decided to pull it out for such rainy days as these.

--------------------------

They say I’m old. Being 85 I know they’re wrong.

I’m really old.

The TV reminds me of it everyday. My grandchildren don’t let me forget. Our societies addiction to youth – it’s painful sometimes. The feeling that I've been left behind.

It’s funny how words change overtime. Words are the product of the times they find themselves in. Always changing. I don’t know what they'll change into. I do know what they have been and I know what they are now.

Take the word "cold" for example. When I used to say the word I meant 30 degrees. Now I mean that if the mercury dips below 78, contrary to the words of science, I’m sure I’ll experience mild to moderate hypothermia.

Or the word "time." If this were the currency of life I used to think I was a millionaire. My life was a casino and I slammed the coins like Ol' St. Nick shoves gifts. Squandered is the word I’m looking for. Not cherishing the moment. That kind of thing.

Now the moment is all I have. And even that’s touch-and-go. They say I have a disease that causes me to loose track of the moment. Every day a few more hours fail to show up for the days role call and there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to discipline these unruly hours back into my recollection.

It’s not just time but memories too. Sometimes I spend time just looking at old memories - pictures - and pray that I will know them tomorrow.

I don’t drive. I travel by foot on good days and by chair on the not so good days. My roads are the halls of this nursing facility they call my home but known to me as society's doggy bag. Containing the leftovers no one wants but would feel guilty if thrown away.

I don’t really walk. I’ve developed a shuffle that defies the term walk and embraces something that resembles more of a gliding motion. Except without the elegance that you might associate with the word "glide." What allows me to glide are my trusty, worn down slippers. They have holes but I have tape. I'm suspicious that I may have developed an attachment to my slippers that's closer related to the feelings my granddaughter, Elie, has for her Teddy Bear rather than the typical man/shoe relationship.

Fast - Then, 90 - 100 mph. Now, if I can get my right foot in front of my left in under 4 seconds I told Henry, my chess mate, that I may just have to tape a racing stripe on the outside of my slippers.

Sweetheart - When I used to say this word it meant that I was probably trying to woo the heart of some "angel" I had met at the bar.

Now when I say sweetheart I’m usually referring to my daughter.

My precious daughter.

She visits me sometimes. I like it when she brings her kids. My grandchildren. Theres a light in their eyes that reminds me of what I might have possessed years ago. That light fades with time though. Like the sun setting on a soul's reason for living. My daughter still has this light but it’s fading. I remind her to hold on to this precious light but I fear the voice of necessity, bills, career, the relational stresses that are typical of marriage these days are starting to crowd it out.

“Hold on to the light sweetheart. Hold on,” I tell her.

This world is too fast for me. I know this because whenever I turn on the television the images on the screen seem to move too quickly. I’ve written Pringles many times to inform them that if they want me to have my primary care giver buy their product they're going to have to slow there advertisements down so I know what’s going on.

So far no response.

Plots move too quickly as well. They’re underdeveloped. I remember when I was young the plots on the radio shows I listened to took weeks to develop. It gave you time to agonize over the potential out come. Now they're over before they begin and they really aren't that good anyway.

Whippersnapper – I’ve never said this word. Contrary to the common understanding that all old men use the same slang words...they don’t.

Old – Then, 30. Now, me.

I talk to myself a lot. I find that I’m the only one who understands me these days. I knew someone who understood me once, be she left.

Love – Then, something that made me feel good about myself and reduced those guys I called my friends to an afterthought. It was something that had the shelf life of cottage cheese and was as deep as those blow up pools you inflate for your children on a Sunday afternoon.

Now, in a word, Shelby. She was my beginning my middle and my end. The words that left my lips in the morning and the dream that found a place in my waking world. She was were the idea of me and the idea of her vanished. My life was the meadow and she, the wildflowers it contained. She was the Guinevere that made me feel like her Lancelot.

She was the deep end of a real pool.

They say I lived 27 years before I met her, I can’t remember a time before January 12, 1953. The day I realized that poetry, grace, radiant life all could be found in a person. I'm not sure how I wound up with her but I did. By some miracle...I did.

And my life was never the same.

I said words change with time. Love above all else. But it doesn’t simply change. It grows. Its something that makes trying to describe seem pointless. You just need to see it, feel it, know it, be it, for yourself.

And your life will never be the same.

It’s a sad irony that the happiest day of ones life and the saddest can revolve around the same person. Shelby left me. I couldn’t find her. A disease took her without asking for an opinion. I cried and I got angry. I yelled at God but he never yelled back so I stopped yelling. Eventually I stopped talking to him all together. Shelby never came back. Out of loneliness I started talking to God again and I was surprised to find him were I left him.

God - Then, a gumball machine. You put your coin in and you get what you want out. Now he's more like a pinball machine. You put your coin in, you have fun for a while, you feel like you're in control and everything feels great. Until the ball gets launched into some cornor of the machine where it sits there for what would seem like an eternity. It sits there until it gets launched out at lightning fast speeds into a bumper that sends it into another bumper over and over again until you wonder if you're playing at all. You eventually realize you're not in control. You never were.

When you get this old you realize that the friends of all those years, the good, the best and the forever types of friends have all gone. Its when it becomes clear that forever isn't as long as you thought it was. It's when those you love have all gone over to the other side. Some people call death the great mystery. When you're this old you tend to see it more like a party bus. Promising to take you to were they are. The ones you love. The one you love. Were your heart truly resides but hadn’t realized it until about 79 or so.

And so I wait. content with the bird's songs in the morning, the shadows of the evening and the memories of long ago at night to keep me company. Sometimes I feel forgotten. But that’s ok. I know my family loves me. They’re busy.

It’s impressive what I don’t remember these days. It’s a miracle if I can remember to use the bathroom myself.

But the beauty of what I do remember is beautiful enough for me.

Adolescence

Words role off the mind slowly these days. Spirit burdened beneath what I must do rather than what I'd rather do.

Some might say this is synonymous with adulthood. I should resist this idea.

Shall we dare to dream? No. We shall dare to dream and give those dreams legs.

Meet the new adolescence.

They're Green

So we've started up our annual mountaineering course a few weeks a go. We have a huge class. Larger than it has ever been.

Anyway I've come back this year as an assistant. If they aren't scared they should be.

I take photo for you.

Live

I'm taking it upon myself to remind you to live.

Take a breath.

Breathe it out.

Know that there is no tomorrow. Only today. You're life does not exist in the future. You've only been given these hours in this place. Where a whole lifetime swings upon the hinges of a moment.

The test of your life is not on how you answer tomorrow's problems, for you can only answer the questions that have already been asked of you. And those questions are asked every second of every hour of every day:

How then shall you live?

And They'll Know Us By Our Video Games

Ouch.

The Tortoise and The Hare

A friend of mine is struggling to feel like she is loved by God. This was part of an email I wrote her. This concept touches on many facets of our lives I think.

Sometimes in life our minds need to follow our hearts. And then other times our hearts need to follow our minds.

It's often that I find my heart racing ahead of a mind that's struggling for breath miles behind me. My mind the tortoise and my heart the hare. Sometimes my heart can be as misguided and unsure as a child. Following rabbit trails and gullies of all sorts. Not holding to the true paths. It would seem our minds are much more apt at following the straight and true trails in life. The one's that follow in the line of what's real. Telling us of this truth that's independent of what our hearts seem to say. It's just that if our minds lead us too often we fail to see the beauty around us in our journey. Perhaps causing us to miss it all together.

If our hearts lead us along we may see much beauty in this world but it'll be elusive and temporal without an anchor. I can't comprehend a more torturous prison. Sensing the beauty of something one minute only to have it robbed the next by a straying child.

For me the mind is often were the anchors in life are found. Keeping us anchored in to what we know to be true. Perhaps this should be the foundation of our existence. It's in our hearts where the beauty of our journey is witnessed however. It's where the passionate fire of our souls deepest longing is kept. We mustn't forget to involve our hearts in the journey. But it's a balance. It's a balance to the most intrinsic and monumental degree, holding the key to a complete life in it's grasp.

Passion

Passion is probably not something that comes and goes, skittering across the landscape of our hearts like some elusive and extraneous breeze. I suppose if passion isn't blowing with the thunderous noise of a 100 mile an hour gale force it isn't something one might expect to stick around.

---

Can one choose to be a passionate individual? Or does passion choose them?

Is passion a choice? Produced from the depths. Or does it spring forth from a vessel of it's own election? Maybe it's the product of many years of seeing lies or wrong doings. Maybe discovering that one is no longer bound by the chains of his or her own making. Of other's making. A reckoning of what's broken with an impulse to fix it. A passionate existence being that revelation's full on expression.

Want

It's a rat race this life is and so much information and so much to comprehend and so much to grasp with so little time and we're running, always running and you say what's relevant what's authentic but what do they mean what's fashionable-what tastes sickly sweet what's hip cool and slicked out of it's mind that glossy coating of all we hold dear we have information but haven't the minds to dissect it and we have news shows and podcasts and billboards all telling us what's true and so many books all disagree but all supposed to help us understand and televisions as our feeding troughs ensuring informational obesity preventing us from getting up from our plush couches and promising nothing but lies and disclosing all but what's important to a dead world but in complexity whats uncomplicated is needed and I want a simple humanity a simple philosophy a simple moral standard ethical code want what's true what's right what's good...

and

I

just

want

to

breath.

New Orleans

It was a good trip.

Did Someone Say Beads?!

Sorry for the silence. I went down to New Orleans to help out with yet another disaster relief team this past week. I'm currently working on recounting the whole ordeal and will not speak another word of it here until I'm done.

I see an ocean.

It's depth scares me so. And I know this fear well. Crashing upon this shore. Surging forth with power beyond this creature's reckoning. The thunderous collision of it's strength. Beautiful? Yes with beauty. Moving about with clever grace and mystery.

I feel the ocean.

I feel the ocean but I can't touch it. Salty drips of liquid mockery collide with my face as if to pronounce, though I may feel its breath, I may not swim in its place in this world.

You are there and I am here. Why these tethers? Why not the handshack of our bodies? You splashing, me running. Jumping at the drum of my bare feet on your shores. The pounding of my heart beat, the thundering of your liquid applause. A union of bodies - your's massive, mine oh so small.

And I hear the ocean.

I hear the ocean but I see mountains before me. Insurmountable I called them once and call them still. Menacing they claim to be. And I know it well. I cannot climb their snow caped crowns.

And to my knees I falter. Ocean come to me! I hear, I see - no I feel you. I know you're there. Come to me I cry. For this ridge I cannot tame, this peak I've failed to conquer. Is this fate now mine? This legacy, the collision of faltered hopes and failed dreams.

For you are there and I am here and I fear that never shall the two meet.

Minus 20

The wind was like a thousand knives peeling, cutting, detaching my skin from my body.

It was minus 20 degrees. Any exposed skin promptly submitted to the strong arm of winter by way of a white flacky complexion. Early stages of frostbite. There were slivers of exposed skin beneath and above my sunglasses that allowed the wind to drive stakes into my head with uninhibited force. We were only a mile and a half in when I found myself saying, "This is not good. I can't make it." At the time standing at the base of what I thought would be my floor at some point in the day.

So no, we weren't at the summit of Mt. Quandary. In fact we weren't anywhere close.

I found out the hard way that I don't have all the equipment I need to tackle a mountain in the dead of winter.

I was beaten. Quandary ate my lunch, handed me my hat, the question of "whose your daddy" was answered by a rock lying just northwest of Breckenridge.

And so with a middle finger held high in Mt. Quandary's general direction I've begun the process of recollecting my strength, will and nerves in an attempt to transition from being the conquered to being the conquerer.

And to Mt Quandary I say this: Your day will come. You will submit to my will.

Oh yes...

you will.

Mt. Quandary

I'm climbing Mt. Quandary this Saturday. Pretty excited - and scared. Can I do this thing? Have I got what it takes to accomplish the task? I suppose that's one of the reasons I'm so transfixed with climbing. Every time I step up to one of these monuments of rock and dirt I'm stepping up to the edge of myself. The edge of my masculinity. Asking the questions of me that demand answers. Whether it's failure or victory they must be answered. Because one's failure in applying meaning to his existence is worse than the failed attempts it will take in getting him there.

Why do we explore and why do we wonder? What are we looking for? To see what's around the corner? Why do we care what lies around the bend? Maybe we're looking for ourselves. Not the self that we come face to face with every day. But something deeper, a part of us that we haven't discovered yet. That we don't meet very often. Or ever. Does that mean we all need to climb moutains? No. But mountains take on many different shapes in one's life, agreed?

And so my questions to you is this, have you climbed a mountian lately? Not have you conquered one but have you tried to climb one?

Rocky Mountain National Park

Another snow shoe trip. I even included a picture of me.This one was in the Rocky Mountain National Park up near Estes Park.

Article

I like this.

Avalanche Awareness Field Trip

So you can go ahead and consider me avalanche savvy.

The History Of Portland's Processed Meat Industry According to a Considerably Ignorant Historian

There is potential here for some confusion. This is a work of complete fiction. It was a writing assignment for my small group writing class. The names of the characters in this work have not been changed since they probably don't exist anyway.

It would be cool if they did though.

The Seattle Sausage Eatery is conveniently located next to the Legacy Good Samaritan Hospital & Medical Center in downtown Portland, Oregon. The diner is considered by many to be a historical and political landmark as much as it is a "quality eating establishment."

Being misunderstood as a Seattle-based chain the owner of the diner can often be overheard explaining to inquisitive patrons that, “no we aren't’ a chain and no we aren’t based out of Seattle.” What the owner categorically fails to mention is why the diner has Seattle in the name at all. It's possible that the owner's abrupt reply inhibits further investigation but the answer to that question has yet to be acquired. It's been said that even the owner’s closest friends have failed to pry any light on the subject from his odd disposition of secrecy.

Regardless of any mystery that has surrounded this ill-named diner in the past it remains to be the lunch hour hot spot for some of Portland’s finest doctors, nurses & blue wristband wearing patience.

It has often been stated that should anyone ever experience the mildest symptoms of a flu, cold or fever and didn’t want to go through all the fuss of scheduling an appointment, one could simply walk into the Seattle Sausage and casually mention, while waiting to be seated, any or all symptoms that happened to ail them and they would promptly receive a quick physical, a prescription, an ear full of advice and a hot dog while they waited for their physician to complete his or her lunch diner assessment.

It has been rumored that the minimum employee requirement at the diner is a PHD from no particular medical center in the country, but preferably one on the east coast, and should the need arise, any given bus boy could perform CPR, the Heimlich and deliver a child all while prepping the next table for another sausage loving patron to occupy.

In addition to it’s presumably untouchable polish sausage, the average Portlander is well acquainted with the fact that the Seattle Sausage is home to the “legendary” Piping Pickle Platter. It’s reputation solidified by the words of Slew Himmerman, the acclaimed Portland Herald food critic, as being “the best damn pickle platter I have ever tasted in my entire life.”

The weight of such appraisal was cemented in the readers minds based on rumors that Slew made his assessment in the middle of some financially difficult times, an encounter with a late blooming chicken pocks episode and a relationship with his wife that was characterized by a never ending notion of contempt giving their marriage the same type of feel you might find in the relationship a tax evading citizen would have with an IRS agent that showed up at his doorstep on a Sunday afternoon. In fact they say, at the time of the tasting, that after cramming the remains of the pickle platter into his mouth, Slew rushed home to proclaim to a confused and, no doubt, embarrassed wife that he had found a “new love in his life” and that his mistress was green, short and stubby and came in his choice of simmering sauce.

From that moment on the Seattle Sausage's fate was sealed in stone. Over the course of the next 14 years from 1977 to 1991 the Seattle Sausage Eatery played a role in the mounting and execution of, what a newspaper columnist would later describe as, “pivotal events in Portland’s meat loving history.” From the birthing of the “healthy processed meat initiative” that was a response to the growing health food craze descriptive of the early 90s to the increasingly volatile state of the Polish and German communities, the small diner’s gravity could be felt throughout the Portland area.

In 1978 it was said that the socioeconomic unrest surrounding the meat industry reached an all time high. Some likened it to the unrest that eventually led to the Civil War in 1861.

Roughly 90% of the hot dog stands in the city were owned and operated by German immigrants who had made there way to the US in the 30s & 40s. After several unsuccessful attempts at breaking into the cabbage and squash markets that proved lucrative during the time for the Romanians, the Germans quickly turned to the meat industry understanding that while squash took a decidedly minimal role in their native land’s eating habits – bratwursts and other obscure forms of meat played a dominant role in not only their nations menu of choice but incorporated the well known German beer industry as well.

In just under 3 years the German dominated bratwurst market went from being a Thursday evening afterthought to claiming the title of “Sexiest Lunch Food in America” according to the Gourmet Magazine’s weekly newsletter. Evolving from meat on a stick served at carnivals to playing a dominant role in the parties and social get-togethers of the rich and famous. Many economic commentators and analysts sited the bratwurst market as being the fastest growing market in US history surpassed only by the technology industries that took flight in the later part of the 20th century.

It was only a matter of time before the Germans’ took over the struggling Polish sausage market as well. Sure enough it didn’t take long for the entrepreneurial genius of the Germans to effect and eventually dominate not only the Polish sausage industry but the hot dog industry as well which, up to that point, had been controled by Oscar Mayer Wiener, an American owned company which successfully aided and secured the hot dog’s image as being America’s consumable icon of choice.

It’s unclear how long the German’s would have held the title of “Heiß Hund Könige” (Hot Dog Kings) had the Seattle Sausage not opened its doors in 1977 by an extremely secretive but undeniably brilliant gentlemen by the name of Jeeves Hazle who, most agreed, possessed many of the same physical traits as the sausages he served. Many of Portland’s children decided that if indeed man could trace his origins back to the primate, Jeeves could just as easily track his ancestry back to a meat processing plant somewhere in the northern part of New Hampshire.

Regardless of Jeeves Hazle’s questionable origin, no one could deny his ability to infiltrate and upset the German meat market of the late 70s. For the better part of six months the Seattle Sausage provided what most considered a superior product. It was agreed however that the marginally better sausages weren’t enough to over throw the shear convenience the hot dog stands provided simply by the fact that they existed on just about every corner of Portland. The Seattle Sausage’s dominance was solidified however on the eve of the summer of 1979 when Jeeves unveiled the Piping Pickle Platter. It was served in hot, medium or mild and came with a side of mustard, ranch or an unidentifiable red sauce that, when asked about, would be described by the owner as “my own special recipe of something a little tasty taste.”

The platter was described as the pickle that broke the carts wheel, as it was an all but academic fact that a good Piping Pickle Platter could never be prepared and served properly from a cart - much to the chagrin of the Germans.

The Seattle Sausage had proven it’s commanding dominance as a sausage serving powerhouse for the better part of two decades and the German meat industry had been turned on it’s head. While some of the German populace decided to remain in the hot dog stand business, most left it in favor of their beer-brewing heritage and opened up pubs and brewery’s all over town. Ironically Jeeves Hazle would later befriend his German, business owning associates at the annual Oktoberfest held by the city and the semiannual bear and bratwurst conferences held at the convention center.

It’s been rumored that Jeeves and some well-to-do German capitalists have been working on an exciting new development involving a bratwurst/polish hybrid and Jeeves’ "tasty taste" red sauce that, if proven successful, will once again succeed in revolutionizing the way Portlanders consume their processed meat-based lunch time specials.

The Power of Art at Work

Posithiv

Continued Thanks

I have to tell you guys that what has happened over the past few posts has been pretty incredible. I value your insight and thoughts, our shared journey. The value of friendship is never so clear to one until he’s faced with a cavern. A void. Something bigger than himself. Something beyond himself. Any sort of exploration takes a team to get the job done. Maybe that's why the church is so crucial.

It's really an exploration team. I’d rather think of it in those terms than a school. I never really liked school.

In some ways my interaction with you over the past couple of weeks has painted a clearer picture of the church than my Sunday morning experiences of late.

I was telling a friend that I think that sometimes the chapters of life, generally, pass by without clear marking. In retrospect it’s easier to see where you’ve been and how your life shifts over the years. But then sometimes the passing of a chapter is very clear to you right then and can be concisely marked at a specific point in time.

I’m not sure what’s next but I feel, very clearly, that I’ve passed into a new chapter. I sense that the right thing to do now is wait. So I guess that’s what I’ll do.

No Real Point But Worth Saying (Part 2)

I wrote this as a response to the discussion in the comment column of the previous post.

By way of clarification Ricardo: I’m not satisfied with the way I’ve painted my Christian faith. I want better. Real. True. Something more.

How’s that for ambiguous? I appreciate our conversation last night bro.

I appreciate what you guys have been commenting here as well. It’s true and good and right. Many things I’ve done before but have done poorly or incorrectly. Things I’ve done but in the wrong context or assumption. In the midst of a poor education of what I should expect this thing too look like. What God looks like.

What I was trying to paint in the previous post was the process of stepping back and reevaluating it all. Going back to square one. Sometimes people get confused by what I'm attempting to convey here. But if we tried to articulate a lot of our spiritual journey to others we would be left with blank stares. It’s our journey and no one else’s. Right? It’s unique and it’s beautiful. And it might be strange.

Kate, I appreciate what you said. In essence, there is no road map. That’s answer enough. That’s what I need to hear.

JJ & Ricardo, you’ve said something good. There are certain things that can be done to make ourselves oriented correctly. To manifest the right person in this world and to express the right characteristics to those we come in contact with. To point ourselves in the right, general direction. Maybe the rest is up to our imaginations.

Left up to our dreams.

Perhaps what lies beyond is the wilderness of our spirituality. Untamed. Scary. Certainly difficult at times. But always lively. Always rich with meaning. Always characterized by growth. Marked by the fingerprint of a God that wants us to live freely and expressively.

Its into this wilderness I want to go. Maybe I haven’t spent enough time in it. Maybe I didn’t even know it was there. No one can tell you what it looks like or even how it’ll feel. They can remind you of the compasses & tools of navigation that we’ve been given but that’s all. We have to walk it ourselves.

There is an excitement in me at the idea of potential discovery out there. In that wilderness. The potential to discover something new. Something true to me. Something that hasn’t been seen before. Maybe it’s the love God has for this creature, or he wants me to know that he laughs a lot, or that his heart burns with passion for the things I love. Perhaps he wants to introduce me to the Son I’ve heard about for so long but never really met.

So I guess I am Indiana Jones. I’m leaving for the jungle. In search of some ancient relic that was meant to be found by someone less than worthy. Someone weak and little but somehow managed to make God’s list of “The Years Smallest People Worth Dieing For.” I hope I never come back to the same place I was before. I hope I get lost out there....

...and I hope others will follow. Not in my footsteps but out their front door into the unknown & unbridled. With doubt? Yes. With faith? Absolutely.

And God keeps on smiling.

No Real Point But Worth Saying

It's funny how the direction of our lives can be dictated by such small decisions we make in those inconsequential moments isn't it? What could have been or almost was hinging on that little decision you made sometime in your past that you look back on now. Perhaps, in some cases, comprehending the gravity of that decision presently more than you did at the time.

---

I was an usher at a wedding this weekend. The groom is a great bloke from Australia. The bride was my girlfriend four years back. It was a beautiful wedding. Good to see old faces and good to make new friends. People ask me if it was strange being there for obvious reasons. I answer no, explaining that it was a long time ago and we ended it on good terms. I still consider her a good friend and a beautiful person. I like to think we're both better people for being in the relationship.

On top of that she's the one who asked me to be an usher at her wedding...it's not like I just showed up.

But in all of this I couldn't help but reflect on how at one point in time we were considering marriage, which would have effectively altered both of our lives to an uncertain degree, forever.

It's a weighty thought to be sure.

---

I'm thinking about my life and the decisions I'm making now. Wondering if they're the right ones...the wrong ones.

Have I fallen into complacency and comfort? Trading the unknown for the routine.

Do I need a calling in order to move in a direction or will it follow? Catching up to me.

Is what I dream at night what I’m supposed to be doing or are they simply dreams? How valid are our dreams? Our passions? Do we really believe that God is the fulfiller of hopes and dreams or do we believe he just gave them to us to provide a way through the drudgery?

Is God practical? Do we really believe in a pragmatic deity? The Bible doesn’t seem to think so. Blowing trumpets to crumble walls is not practical. Sorry. When did the practical thing to do become the right thing to do? Why is my life so practical? Were is faith required? I haven’t gone out on a limb for a while.

Am I supposed to draw pictures for the rest of my life. At a desk. Behind a computer. Wearing business casual. I find a certain amount of fulfillment in my work. Satisfaction. But it’s not complete.

I'm not sure I'm fully satisfied with my life as a Christian. Or my idea of God. Oh I love him. As much I can I suppose. I mean I throw mud in his face all the time. But he keeps on loving me. Causing me to stop hurling mud and love him back for a while. Until I forget about the smile on his face and start slinging mud again.

I’m not satisfied with God because I don’t know him. It's like for a long time we've been passing each other in the hall and he's been saying "How are you?" in the real, genuine sense and I've been saying "Fine, how are you?" in the half-hearted socially polite kind of way.

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Huh. And all this from an usher. Aren’t usher’s the dumb ones? Escorting any and all warm blooded, feminine creatures that happen to get in arms length down a predetermined, white ribboned course. "Just follow the white carpet dude," is what they tell me. And forget about the footstep thing. It doesn't work.

It’s not like I was a Best Man or anything. Now those guys are deep.

Maybe I’m over thinking things. Wouldn't be the first time I suppose.

The Brilliance That Is An Unbridled Grade School Mind

You can't know where you're going until you know where you've been. At least that's what they say anyway. I found some old writings from my grade school years that were pretty humorous and/or brilliant. At least I thought so.

I don't remember writing any of this.

Time and I
By: Nathan Crutchfield

There are many things that cannot be explained in life: Where babies come from, why women go the bathroom in groups, why Bill Clinton is still in the White House. These things will probably never be answered until we get to heaven. So why try to figure out what things actually are? Somewhere in the Bible God tells man to explore his creation.

One of the biggest things man is trying to figure out is what exactly is time. There have been movies and books that have dealt with the subject. One movie described it like this; when he stepped into the time machine it would transport him either to the past or the future. The only main problem with the thing was that if a structure was built where the time machine sat it would explode (or something to that extent).

I think, as do others, that time is the 4th dimension. It's something that goes beyond height, width and depth. This of course is not only visible to the eye but also to the mind. It is hard for man (especially me) to fathom the elements of time. It's something like heaven. We can't really imagine how great it is until we get there.

There are so many theories on time that it would take days to name and explain them all. But the real question is, "Why did God create time for man when he doesn't even live in a time/space continuum himself?" I think it's because he meant it for man to be able to look back on his past and to learn from his mistakes. Let's face it, if we couldn't look back at what the mistake and consequence was we would be in deep trouble. It also gives us the opportunity to discern when events will happen, such as events from the Bible.

So even though time is kind of a strange thing, it really isn't quite as strange as it seems. So the next time you think of "time," just stop right there, because in the time it takes you to fathom what it means to you, you will have spent way too much time thinking and too little time watching football.

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It's difficult to say why there are still discussions on time taking place today when such a brilliant piece of literature has already been written on the subject.

I was ahead of my time.