In light of my most recent blog posting, "Hope Floats on a River Wild", the mishaps of this past Sunday should have been received with a joviality that says, "Sometimes important and special things break."
Someone urged us to take pictures this year when it came time to decorate the Christmas tree with our kids. We took it a step further and videotaped the gaiety.
My opening narrative upon rolling the tape: "Ahhh. Here we are. Christmas season 2008. It's gently snowing outside. It's Eliana's first time helping decorate the family tree. She's about to hang the first ornament. The old toy soldier- good choice. Oh, sweetie…no… hold it with both hands…no, no-" (Pan out; clean up remains of sentimental family ornament, circa 1982).
Yeah, that was kind of how the evening went. Eliana would hang an ornament (on the furthest possible extremity of the branch) and turn around to get another ornament from the box. Meanwhile, Judah would take off said ornament, along with the branch. Lacking the manual dexterity required to hang ornaments, he would just throw it back at the tree and hope it would stick. I liked his approach (reminded me of some women who look in the mirror and just say, "Ugh. What do I do with this?", then proceed to throw on every kind of make-up in the cabinet hoping something will work). The ornaments never "stick" (ladies take note).
One-year old humans never seem more like puppies than at Christmas time, or so I postulate.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Hope Floats on the River Wild
Grandma always said "$h!+" happens, get on wit' it". The theological directive in her brusqueness doesn't exactly jump out at you.
Did grandma not take Madonna at her word-- that heaven is a place on earth? Some of us operate as if there is little distinction between the present earth and the New Earth yet to come. We tend to expect some form of perfection or smoothness on this rock. Short lines and healthy kids and clean carpets. And with the (subconscious) heaven-on-earth mentality, we get upset when the streets aren't gold enough.
Personally, I often feel the need to take matters into my own hands. I see the cracks in my life and rush to fortify my kingdom. Sometimes I buy more stuff to place in front of the cracks (i.e., rugs to cover the lacerations in our hardwood floors), so I won't have to think about them.
I've heard people say that they just need more insurance, be it life, health, car, or home. Is that the answer? In a spell of reckless mutiny this past week I declined opportunities to purchase package insurance at the post office and an electric screwdriver warranty at Home Depot. I can see the merit in those things, but do you ever have the feeling that insurance and faith function in opposition? Or that you are transferring the location of your faith from God to Geico? I'm not saying insurance or warranties are orange cones to spiritual growth. But is there a limit? If the lizard offers you a new plan that covers a bad day, would we be first in line?
I heard a few days ago that the word "bailout" beat out "maverick" and "misogyny" for Merriam-Webster's 2008 "Word of the Year", for its obvious overuse the past 2 and a half months. Assuming you’re a normal person, like me, and not a mega-corporation, how would you feel if the government offered you a personal "bailout"? I've had the occasional tight financial spot lately. At 6'4", I feel I'm too big to fail. Shorter people are depending on me.
I suspect happier people take grandma's attitude.
They have the experience to know that Murphy's will never get demoted to Theory.
Let's face it; I will always lock my keys in my car on the morning of my first day of a new job (circa last month). I will always think I am more or less attractive than I really am. I will always end up in the longest line at the store and my debit card will not be in my wallet when it's time to pay for my groceries. My kids will always fall on their face. I will always vote for the losing presidential candidate.
So, if I expect these things to happen, then life will be less painful, right? If I make this part of my paradigm, I can give people who wrong me the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I can even smile at the dude who cut me off on the highway. "I'm sure he's not a jerk in normal situations. Maybe he's just drunk". My road rage has never worked yet, anyway.
Okay, the above approach (anticipating a little "hell on earth") may be an okay approach for some people. But aren't we called to do more than that? Sure, bad things will happen. Scripture says that, as Christians, we are being "killed all day long". That's more than "$h!+ happens", that's "death prowls".
"Bad days" can take the wind out of you, definitely. There have been days coming home from work when I feel like saying to my wife, "Please just let me go upstairs so I can lay fetal in bed and stare out the window while listening to R.E.M's "Everybody Hurts". But in His grace and goodness, God always intercepts my plea. Such as, my daughter running up to me holding the picture she drew of a "pretty lady". Wait, isn't that a monster with no torso. I hear God telling me to "get over yourself". You're missing it. Don't dwell on the temporal (i.e., this ailing earth, your broken vessel of a body, and the other sin-birthed issues enveloping my little world).
So, God…the idea that everyday I'm like a "sheep being led to the slaughter" (a la Psalms 44 and Romans 8) is supposed to make me want to paint rainbows and sunshine on my bedroom walls and grab my vapor clogs for a stroll on cloud 9?
That is nonsense unless you are truly among those who are new creations, born of the Spirit, aliens of this world. In which case you are deemed "overcomers" or "more than conquerors", not through our own strength, in which case we could boast, but through Him who loved us.
So, as overcomers, life's problems don't affect us and bad days are history, right? No, "s+uff (still) happens". Sin still keeps Murphy, esq., in practice. But only for a definite time. Murphy will retire. Christians, through Christ's atoning work, will live on, unaffected by the eternal damning effects of sin.
With this realization, how should we live while in these decaying bag-o-bones on this crumbling rock?
Like a woman in labor.
Pain for pain's sake is wretched. Arthritis is not orgasmic. A woman in labor is altogether different. She may scream at new octaves because of the horrific pain. But in that, she knows how it will finish. In a short time she will be cradling a beautiful miracle. All will be peaceful for a time. People will celebrate. Her wounds will heal.
Apostle Paul puts this all beautifully in perspective in Romans 8:18-25 (see below). Read it often.
People on Earth without this hope are laboring in vain. Their's will produce only a stillbirth. Their tears won't end. Their bodies won't heal. And we need to tell them the reason for the hope we have, namely Jesus.
But first you have to truly cling to this hope (Hebrews 10:23) and let it generate a new vivacity and joy that holds more amperage than the mere "Power of Positive Thinking".
Romans 8:18-25
18For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.
19For the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God.
20For the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope,
21Because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God.
22For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now.
23And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.
24For we are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for?
25But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.
Did grandma not take Madonna at her word-- that heaven is a place on earth? Some of us operate as if there is little distinction between the present earth and the New Earth yet to come. We tend to expect some form of perfection or smoothness on this rock. Short lines and healthy kids and clean carpets. And with the (subconscious) heaven-on-earth mentality, we get upset when the streets aren't gold enough.
Personally, I often feel the need to take matters into my own hands. I see the cracks in my life and rush to fortify my kingdom. Sometimes I buy more stuff to place in front of the cracks (i.e., rugs to cover the lacerations in our hardwood floors), so I won't have to think about them.
I've heard people say that they just need more insurance, be it life, health, car, or home. Is that the answer? In a spell of reckless mutiny this past week I declined opportunities to purchase package insurance at the post office and an electric screwdriver warranty at Home Depot. I can see the merit in those things, but do you ever have the feeling that insurance and faith function in opposition? Or that you are transferring the location of your faith from God to Geico? I'm not saying insurance or warranties are orange cones to spiritual growth. But is there a limit? If the lizard offers you a new plan that covers a bad day, would we be first in line?
I heard a few days ago that the word "bailout" beat out "maverick" and "misogyny" for Merriam-Webster's 2008 "Word of the Year", for its obvious overuse the past 2 and a half months. Assuming you’re a normal person, like me, and not a mega-corporation, how would you feel if the government offered you a personal "bailout"? I've had the occasional tight financial spot lately. At 6'4", I feel I'm too big to fail. Shorter people are depending on me.
I suspect happier people take grandma's attitude.
They have the experience to know that Murphy's will never get demoted to Theory.
Let's face it; I will always lock my keys in my car on the morning of my first day of a new job (circa last month). I will always think I am more or less attractive than I really am. I will always end up in the longest line at the store and my debit card will not be in my wallet when it's time to pay for my groceries. My kids will always fall on their face. I will always vote for the losing presidential candidate.
So, if I expect these things to happen, then life will be less painful, right? If I make this part of my paradigm, I can give people who wrong me the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I can even smile at the dude who cut me off on the highway. "I'm sure he's not a jerk in normal situations. Maybe he's just drunk". My road rage has never worked yet, anyway.
Okay, the above approach (anticipating a little "hell on earth") may be an okay approach for some people. But aren't we called to do more than that? Sure, bad things will happen. Scripture says that, as Christians, we are being "killed all day long". That's more than "$h!+ happens", that's "death prowls".
"Bad days" can take the wind out of you, definitely. There have been days coming home from work when I feel like saying to my wife, "Please just let me go upstairs so I can lay fetal in bed and stare out the window while listening to R.E.M's "Everybody Hurts". But in His grace and goodness, God always intercepts my plea. Such as, my daughter running up to me holding the picture she drew of a "pretty lady". Wait, isn't that a monster with no torso. I hear God telling me to "get over yourself". You're missing it. Don't dwell on the temporal (i.e., this ailing earth, your broken vessel of a body, and the other sin-birthed issues enveloping my little world).
So, God…the idea that everyday I'm like a "sheep being led to the slaughter" (a la Psalms 44 and Romans 8) is supposed to make me want to paint rainbows and sunshine on my bedroom walls and grab my vapor clogs for a stroll on cloud 9?
That is nonsense unless you are truly among those who are new creations, born of the Spirit, aliens of this world. In which case you are deemed "overcomers" or "more than conquerors", not through our own strength, in which case we could boast, but through Him who loved us.
So, as overcomers, life's problems don't affect us and bad days are history, right? No, "s+uff (still) happens". Sin still keeps Murphy, esq., in practice. But only for a definite time. Murphy will retire. Christians, through Christ's atoning work, will live on, unaffected by the eternal damning effects of sin.
With this realization, how should we live while in these decaying bag-o-bones on this crumbling rock?
Like a woman in labor.
Pain for pain's sake is wretched. Arthritis is not orgasmic. A woman in labor is altogether different. She may scream at new octaves because of the horrific pain. But in that, she knows how it will finish. In a short time she will be cradling a beautiful miracle. All will be peaceful for a time. People will celebrate. Her wounds will heal.
Apostle Paul puts this all beautifully in perspective in Romans 8:18-25 (see below). Read it often.
People on Earth without this hope are laboring in vain. Their's will produce only a stillbirth. Their tears won't end. Their bodies won't heal. And we need to tell them the reason for the hope we have, namely Jesus.
But first you have to truly cling to this hope (Hebrews 10:23) and let it generate a new vivacity and joy that holds more amperage than the mere "Power of Positive Thinking".
Romans 8:18-25
18For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.
19For the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God.
20For the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope,
21Because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God.
22For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now.
23And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.
24For we are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for?
25But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
A Leaf on the River Wild
So there was this fella who had a basin in his kitchen where he kept his drinking water. Every day he would fight, then yield to the new sun, crawl into his threads and head to Swollen River. He would drop a few timber pales in and, in seconds, they'd be brim-full-o-water. He'd then walk zombie-like back to his cottage and empty the pales into the basin, kick off his boots, drink himself ill, and then strum his banjo until the next day.
One day he grew weary of easy water at Swollen River. He made one last trip to the river on the morn of April 1. On the walk home he chopped down the oak trees until the path behind him was rendered impassable from his direction. He promised never to return to the river of bloated hippos.
The fella, whose name we lawfully protect, found a new source of drinking water within meters of his cottage. The sign at the waters' head read "Greener Stream". It took twice as long to collect half as much water, but the setting was idyllic. Plus the berries on the bank bushes were plump and marvelous and free for the picking.
He continued to collect water from Greener Stream and enjoy the bank berries for a few months. It was toilsome, and the riverflies were ignorant of their peskiness, but the fella refrained from thinking that his switch in water sources was a folly. One day the bushes stopped producing berries. The next day, for no obvious reason, the stream became a dirt groove in the forest floor.
Thankfully, the fella had been drinking only moderately and had enough water to maintain him for a spell.
Just when his throat sprouted a cactus bud, an answer to his hydration predicament came in the form of a telegram under his front door. It read, "Pack your clothes and take the 4:00 horse to the 10:00 boat, all the way to the faraway land of the Havnots. While you are there, a member of our brood called Body will deliver to you daily decanters of water. Leave at once."
The fella heeded the call with mild trepidation. Sure enough, he had no unquenchable thirst for the entire duration of his stay in the land of the Havnots. Every day a container of water appeared on his doorstep. He remained in this land from mid-Winter to mid-Summer.
Via boat, horseback, and thin leather boots, he returned to his cottage with one decanter of drinking water saved from his journey home.
Days went by and with but a sip to spare, he learned of a new source of drinking water across state lines. It was in a metropolis. The water source was small, ranging from brook to creek, never earning "stream" status- even in the April showers. In comparison to Swollen Creek, it was 3 times the labor to collect a third of the water. Also, the water needed to be run through the coal before being deemed suitable for drinking- a tedious process. The challenge piqued the fella's interest. Due to the distance, he was required to leave his cottage for a home in the town.
After a year of sweat and blood droplets in his water vessels, something inside said it was time for change. The fella questioned the inner voice. "But I've acquired the taste of this new water. Why now? And to where will I go?" Feeling compelled, albeit a little befuddled and saddened, he left Broken Brook and Crooked Creek for a temporary spring a long walk away, where a few of his brothers dipped pale. It was sweet water.
Word got out that the fella was looking for a new water source, as the spring was to run dry come December. Some raised brows, knowing that it was a very dry season, with many of the rivers having dried up.
On a day when hope seemed to be losing air, a man stopped the fella on his hike to the spring. He was a veteran who settled along a great river a few months ago. He proceeded to tell the fella of his river's glory. Asked the name of the river by the fella, the man said, "It's called the Great Iron-knee River."
"Oh," responded the fella.
The man continued, "But some call it Swollen River."
The fella's heart at once trembled. Then danced. Then did an awkward combination of the two.
The veteran invited the fella to dip his pale and taste the water. Conceding, the fella cautiously walked toward the river he once loved and once hated. Arriving to its bank, the fella noticed that the river had grown even bigger than before. And more wild. There before him was more water available than even before. However, the river's velocity would likely make the collection of water more challenging.
The veteran finished his pitch, "And there is a quaint strawbale cottage that's been vacant for nearly 3 years. It lies a short distance from the river's great bend. Have a look."
The fella needn't ask for the exact location of the cottage, for he knew in his heart it was his old home.
Sometimes you can go back, he thought to himself.
Not aware of all its implications, the fella returned to his cottage and watering hole with a vigilant glee. Maybe there are new opportunities along the river, he wondered. Perhaps that's why I'm being led back.
Maybe it's not about the river at all.
One day he grew weary of easy water at Swollen River. He made one last trip to the river on the morn of April 1. On the walk home he chopped down the oak trees until the path behind him was rendered impassable from his direction. He promised never to return to the river of bloated hippos.
The fella, whose name we lawfully protect, found a new source of drinking water within meters of his cottage. The sign at the waters' head read "Greener Stream". It took twice as long to collect half as much water, but the setting was idyllic. Plus the berries on the bank bushes were plump and marvelous and free for the picking.
He continued to collect water from Greener Stream and enjoy the bank berries for a few months. It was toilsome, and the riverflies were ignorant of their peskiness, but the fella refrained from thinking that his switch in water sources was a folly. One day the bushes stopped producing berries. The next day, for no obvious reason, the stream became a dirt groove in the forest floor.
Thankfully, the fella had been drinking only moderately and had enough water to maintain him for a spell.
Just when his throat sprouted a cactus bud, an answer to his hydration predicament came in the form of a telegram under his front door. It read, "Pack your clothes and take the 4:00 horse to the 10:00 boat, all the way to the faraway land of the Havnots. While you are there, a member of our brood called Body will deliver to you daily decanters of water. Leave at once."
The fella heeded the call with mild trepidation. Sure enough, he had no unquenchable thirst for the entire duration of his stay in the land of the Havnots. Every day a container of water appeared on his doorstep. He remained in this land from mid-Winter to mid-Summer.
Via boat, horseback, and thin leather boots, he returned to his cottage with one decanter of drinking water saved from his journey home.
Days went by and with but a sip to spare, he learned of a new source of drinking water across state lines. It was in a metropolis. The water source was small, ranging from brook to creek, never earning "stream" status- even in the April showers. In comparison to Swollen Creek, it was 3 times the labor to collect a third of the water. Also, the water needed to be run through the coal before being deemed suitable for drinking- a tedious process. The challenge piqued the fella's interest. Due to the distance, he was required to leave his cottage for a home in the town.
After a year of sweat and blood droplets in his water vessels, something inside said it was time for change. The fella questioned the inner voice. "But I've acquired the taste of this new water. Why now? And to where will I go?" Feeling compelled, albeit a little befuddled and saddened, he left Broken Brook and Crooked Creek for a temporary spring a long walk away, where a few of his brothers dipped pale. It was sweet water.
Word got out that the fella was looking for a new water source, as the spring was to run dry come December. Some raised brows, knowing that it was a very dry season, with many of the rivers having dried up.
On a day when hope seemed to be losing air, a man stopped the fella on his hike to the spring. He was a veteran who settled along a great river a few months ago. He proceeded to tell the fella of his river's glory. Asked the name of the river by the fella, the man said, "It's called the Great Iron-knee River."
"Oh," responded the fella.
The man continued, "But some call it Swollen River."
The fella's heart at once trembled. Then danced. Then did an awkward combination of the two.
The veteran invited the fella to dip his pale and taste the water. Conceding, the fella cautiously walked toward the river he once loved and once hated. Arriving to its bank, the fella noticed that the river had grown even bigger than before. And more wild. There before him was more water available than even before. However, the river's velocity would likely make the collection of water more challenging.
The veteran finished his pitch, "And there is a quaint strawbale cottage that's been vacant for nearly 3 years. It lies a short distance from the river's great bend. Have a look."
The fella needn't ask for the exact location of the cottage, for he knew in his heart it was his old home.
Sometimes you can go back, he thought to himself.
Not aware of all its implications, the fella returned to his cottage and watering hole with a vigilant glee. Maybe there are new opportunities along the river, he wondered. Perhaps that's why I'm being led back.
Maybe it's not about the river at all.
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