It's Good To See You Today God

TODAY GOD

It’s good to see you today God.

You’re never one day older. You never change I know that.

But you seem different to me today.

Probably because you spared us from disaster yesterday.

You’ve done that before.

It’s good to see you in the sun today God.

You awoke my bride again and I can never repay you for such a gift.

You always do that.

Your gifts are miraculous.

There was so much water yesterday.

Dryness marks the ground today and the skies have changed color.

The heavens do declare your mighty works don’t they?

It’s Summer here and it’s a different Summer than was the last.

But I counted on it being Summer today.

I felt the spine of winter last

even as I soaked in every photo you arranged for us God.

We prefer Spring, Summer and Fall,

But we’re glad you were with us in winter.

It’s good to see you today God.

It’s cooler today and less humid.

I’m glad to see you today God.

Your Word spoke to me this morning God as it so often has.

And it wasn’t long ago that you told me something completely new!

I was glad to see you that day.

I realized you always show me something new. You’re consistent that way.

We have paintings inside our home.

Geniuses work hard to find you there. Sometimes they get it right.

The emotions, the light, the beauty the effervescent color,

the peacefulness, the sorrow, the desperation.

We feel different about them every day.

I’m amazed that all range of glory that carries your name

stands consistent, uniform, steady, dependable, non-fluctuating.

I don’t understand that because I change my mind on a dime constantly.

You’ve consistently insisted and encourage

that we change so that on the ultimate day

we’ll get you in the most eternal, massive, unchanging worship.

I can’t wait to see you that day.

Because today it seems we hear

what we want to hear

and disregard the rest

to the wiles of strangers and temptations.

I wish we were prepared for those Lord because we’re battered.

Maybe I’ve weathered them. I don’t know for sure.

There’s a butcher around the next corner and we know he’s there.

We’ll go a different direction.

We’ll go where rocks are thrown over water

skipping along delighted by your natural laws.

How do we avoid the stones meant to harm?

We can’t always tell which ones skip

from the ones that are sharp and crass and uneven.

We’re glad to find the rock on which we stand.

It’s good to see you today God.

We’re overwhelmed by lies and delighted by jest,

but sometimes they’re the same.

I know the wages of sin but how do I know

whether or not the wages for my work are fair?

Where are wages within a grateful heart?

What payment drives the volunteer who wants nothing in return?

Your call goes out and we desire nothing except that

you would find us there and make your directions clear

because so much of our work happens without direction it seems.

Even so you’re faithfulness fills the ages. Yesterday you said you would be today.

I am your bride and you wake me up to see you every morning.

I lie with you and my fears find rest on your breast. Consistent and true.

I woke up a different man with my wife today.

I remember the day we wed as if she rose to the aisle yesterday.

I told her I loved her as I did then. A holy white lie maybe.

I love her more.

It’s like knowing you are, it’s simply something that is.

Steady. Unchanging. Beautiful. Awesome.

We cry out!

We change and it’s a bit unnerving.

Until I saw her again this morning,

understanding that things were different. Better.

Thanks for that.

I love seeing you today God.

And I’m going to love seeing you tomorrow.

The Watchers

He said, "I want to be the same as Uncle Rick."

Children understand mistakes. They don't mind that their parents, uncles, aunts, grandparents and friends make them. They hate hypocrisy, however, and I believe their little "hypo-dars" can spot hypocrisy and differentiate that from a mere mistake. Too many adult children disown their parents and very few of them are angry about their parent's mistakes. I met a man in a small group a few days ago who simply said, "He calls himself my Dad. I just can't stand the hypocrisy." I don't know really what he meant, but his bitterness seeped thickly and belied a relatively cool and simple response to a question about his family.

My Dad-in-law took his motorcycle driver's test yesterday. He didn't work it out this time and I suppose he felt a little foolish. The test isn't as easy as it looks. He said something like, "I feel a little dumb, but I loved the ride here and I loved the ride back home. I'll take the test again in a couple weeks." He has a permit y'see, so must ride with another motorcyclist until he achieves his full license. I'm that guy for the most part. I'm watching. I'm good with dad's mistakes. And his mistakes yesterday did not belie a man after God's own heart. He bore good fruit, and I was watching.

My wife's bike tire went flat on our morning ride. We were disappointed. God provided a bike shop close by, but the shop hadn't yet opened. She said, "Oh well, we'll ride this afternoon. Ride home, get the car then pick me up. I'll hang at boomer's coffee shop until you're here or until the bike shop opens."

Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, and self-control--the Holy Spirit's fruit--delicious, juice-filled fruit. We rode through a construction zone, a mistake. But my bride didn't belie her fruits by hypocrisy. I was watching.

Monique shaved my head so I'll stay cooler next week when we ride the week-long bicycling event RAGBRAI. My five-year-old nephew watched in wonder as my hair fell to the ground. I could tell his proverbial light-bulb was turned on full. Monique shaved and my nephew Aaron finally said, "Auntie Monique can you do that to me and I want to look like Uncle Rick!" Aaron's hypo-dar read-out said I was safe. He wanted to be like Uncle Rick. I sat somewhat impatiently on my chair, shirt off, shorts on, hair-cut bib on. My nose itched, my neck itched and I got hair on my tongue. But Aaron's hypo-dar was clear, the young man was watching and he wanted to be like me. He wanted to look like Uncle Rick. He wanted to be my little twin. Long term, if he wants to look like me, what does that mean for him? I should want to know.

Later he sat on my lap and leaned against my chest. He turned and I felt his small hand graze over my buzzed head. He did the same to his own head, then leaned against me again.

I've made mistakes. But that day all was clear on the hypo front.

When asked why he didn't go to church, one gentleman said, "Because all Christians are hypocrites!" He's right. I've been a hypocrite. The moment I did something against God's will I hypocrited (is that a word?) God's name. I don't have to say God's name out of context to take his name in vain because the moment I disobey God's will I've taken His name and made it vain. I'm a sinner therefore I need a Savior. Some days there are blips on the children's hypo-dar. I wish that weren't true. But life on this side of eternal life is met with the same unconditional love as the other side of eternal life. I'm glad about that. But what about the blips? What about the oft heard, "He calls himself my dad..."? What about...

Open the closet, wade through your skeletons and bring out, then attach your own hypocrisy meters and wear them like a pace maker on a bad heart. Whatever is true, noble, right and pure; whatever is admirable, excellent and praiseworthy, I urge you to think about such things.

You do, and your children will be there when you're old.

They're watching.

Psalm 66: A Poetic Rendition: Black Water and Crimson by richard j.

The Sermon at church today was based on Psalm 66, a Psalm that laments God's refining and purifying fire that will eventually present me Holy and fully Sanctified. I sometimes don't understand trials and I don't even feel like smelted silver. But as the Psalm says, "I cried out to Him with my Tongue and His praise was on my tongue." This poem is my Psalm 66.



Black Water and Crimson

Sin stabbed me
And black water and crimson flow
And Satan Smiles.
I overlook a raging sea
White walls of salty teeth
And black water and crimson flow.

There are no footprints in water
Only depth and breadth and mystery.
I stand, heart clenched
And hands open
Touch these hands please!
Slippery with black water and crimson.

The salt sea stings my feet
Like grit-iron fence
With barbed wire on the underside.

Muscles ripped
Mix of black water and crimson
Eyes sty with muddy mix and grain.

I’ve never known a day
When, though my hands were
Outstretched in triumph
Swaying from tip to way
That they weren’t also
A pendulum swinging like time and death.
Like gut-shot…and black water and crimson flow.

Only the ocean and no feet
To print my way over.

I only know of two paths

On the unfettered seas,

One leavened with holiness
And the other devilish fear

I am neither holy nor timid
And I walk alone in reticent petulance.
My hands drip
With black water
And my clenched heart bleeds
Like a womb that has lost
Her first born.

Black water and crimson
They’re all I know
Even as they seep from me
Satan smiles.

To see, to walk, to swim, to conquer.
Thunder and waves against the Cliffside
Know my doubt.

But my tussle takes sides
The beautiful rebellion shall
Ne’er find my allegiance,
Nor will he see my death.

I face my God and my heart bleeds
Until all its crimson life
Is gone and in its place like an icy mantle
Is simply white...white

He called me good
And I wrestle in black water
I WRESTLE I WRESTLE!
Muscles ripped, eyes wide
Like propane and fire.

I know my demons
They find me.
And taste their detestable palate,
charred yet polished bursts of ecstasy and hell.
But mixed with terror and ill
And smelling of snake oil.

I stand undevoured
And fight for I am not thine of little faith.

I am shaken,
My feet wrent from my shoulders
And fastened to the ground
In black water and crimson…
I fight.

Even should I build a ship
That I might avoid the water's terrible lips
The sea sees and laughs
Such a small inconsequent thing
And I, even smaller.

The ship no match for the sea
And no match for thee
But what about me?
Black water and crimson
Black water and crimson.

In propane and fire
Black water and crimson
I wrench and wail and fall
But I will fight, I will tussle.
I will wrestle!

And you will break me
Though your lambs remain unfed and thirsty
Tired and naked and distressed
And bathing in black water and crimson
You will fight me.

Because not even I can snatch me from your hand.

Deeply wounded
My pain shrivels me to weary.
I will know them until I reach the gate
And the end of this side of eternal life.

To which I will lift feeble wisdom
To your Judgment and terrible light.

And SO I WRESTLE!
I will fight!
I will fight!
I will not stop until you bless me!!!

And I step onto the sea.

Black water and crimson
Black water and crimson.

The Declaration

"Make all the right choices," I whispered to an infant lad vacationing in my home for a couple days while foster mom and dad were making a visit out of state. I'm not sure why I gave him the advice. I guess I'm just glad he's here. Quite a few dads blessed their children similarly in their day I'm sure. My dad asked me to preserve his good name. Another dad says, "Whatever you do, be great." I simply said, "Make the right choices." I wish we would--I wish we all would. My mistakes have probably made me what I am today--I'm still good with the blessing though--"make all the right choices"--they would also form who I could've been.

Make the right choices--It's July 5th today. I enjoyed the celebration of my country's independence. I'm a United States citizen. I'm part of the melding pot of the world. I live as part of a union that professes, ""Bring me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free." No man left behind.

Y'know, I care about fiscal responsibility, I want to pay less taxes, I want Roe v. Wade overturned and I want freedom to worship. But they do not themselves define my patriotism. I want my country's leaders to make the right choices because, beyond my political ideals, I'm simply a proud American. I'm not better than a Frenchman or a Dutchman, but I'm proud that men and women of the new Americas wanted a government and a system supporting freedoms never before realized. Find your way of life. But understand what you have. Make all the right choices--understand the nature of the blessing--Fathers fear it, but the strongest of them desire nothing else.

Fifty-six men signed the Declaration of Independence--a process that started well before July 4th, 1776. Fifty-six fathers birthed their sons wanting their best from them--"make all the right choices" I can hear them say.

"Make all the right choices." I like to think the fathers of nine who signed our Declaration of Independence and whom also fought and died from Revolutionary war wounds or hardships, gave them this blessing.

A Father had his son Carter Braxton of Virginia. Carter became a wealthy planter and trader and also signed the Declaration and soon after saw his ships swept from the seas by the opposing Revolutionary Navy. He sold his home and properties to pay debts. He died in perverse poverty.

Thomas McKean's signature rests confidently on the Declaration of Independence. Soon after he signed, he was so hounded by opposing search parties that he was forced to move his family almost constantly. He served in the Congress without pay, and his family was kept in hiding. His possessions were taken from him, and poverty was his reward. Make all the right choices.

Soldiers, thieves and vandals radically against this new establishment looted the properties of signers Dillery, Hall, Clymer, Walton, Gwinnett, Heyward, Ruttledge, and Middleton.

At the battle of Yorktown, Declaration signer Thomas Nelson, Jr., noted that the opposing forces had taken over the Nelson home for their headquarters. He quietly urged General George Washington to open fire on his own home. The home was destroyed, and Nelson died bankrupt--make all the right choices.

Opposition destroyed Declaration signer Francis Lewis's home and properties. His wife was jailed and died within a few months.

I have no idea if John Hart's father watched his son's blessing come to fruition. Opposition drove Declaration of Independence signer John Hart from his dying wife's bedside. Their 13 children fled to destinations he would never discover. His fields and his gristmill were laid to waste. For well over one year he lived and hid in forests, caves and shadows, returning home to find his wife and children vanished. Only a few weeks later he died exhausted and broken. Signers Norris and Livingston suffered similar fates.

John Hancock, who's name we so often pilfer every time we encourage someone to sign on any lesser dotted line lost his home, his way of life, his friends and his possessions when Boston burned.

Would a father bless his son then if he knew the consequences of the right choices? Would fifty-six 18th century fathers have blessed their sons? Were they, in the end, proud of them?

Such were the stories and sacrifices of the American Revolution. Many more stories have been lived and told since then. President Abraham Lincoln urged for a more perfect Union--he was assassinated. Men in Viet Nam fought communism, favored freedom and came home to a silent country--backs turned, fires raging.

The men of the Declaration of Independence, of the Revolution and beyond were not merely petulant, wild eyed, hooligans, trouble makers and ruffians. They were soft-spoken men of means and education. They were men of blessing--"make the right choices."

These men had security, wealth and power, but saw as more important the security, power and liberty for all men.

They stood proud, tall, straight, and unwavering -- and they pledged: "For the support of this declaration, with firm reliance on the protection of the divine providence, we mutually pledge to each other, our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor."

The song--our song says the morning broke and "The Flag Was Still There." Our fireworks last night were their glaring and deadly red rockets.

I attended an Independence celebration at the Iowa Capitol. The colors were presented. Many talked right through the ceremony. Our national Anthem, the song of Independence was played, and most did not sing, some talked right through that, some did not remove their hats, others gazed here and there at whatever caught their attention--where is your song? Where is your voice? Make all the right choices. The Macy's day celebration included the celebration of the exploration of the Hudson River 400 years ago. One song during the amazing fire works display compared the U.S. to a bunch of rivers heading into one ocean. The Hudson is beautiful and I am a river. But I heard little of the choices that gave them their song.

Make all the right choices I said to the young infant boy put in my charge a mere two days. I may never know the consequences of his blessing. I hope his adoptive father does. But I blessed him much like my father blessed me and I felt the fear. It felt real.

Make all the right choices.

Sing our song, our National Anthem. Many courageous and terrible choices formed the free path you tread today. Sing our song, The Star Spangled Banner. The rockets glared red and I live free. Sing the song, a song too often relegated to some superstar, but which should be sung by the life and breath of an entire nation of the people, by the people, and for the people. I've lived too long here to allow someone else to sing it for me.

The Impossible

Gray squirrels clamored around my sister-in-law's bird-feeder Saturday morning. Supposedly the manufacturers "squirrel-proofed" the feeder. Tell that to this squirrel. He can't be bothered with the inauthentic mastery of the consummate salesman. Either way, they weren't supposed to be able to do that.

My dad-in-law is a 60-something year old man just learning to ride a motorcycle. Many physically challenged/handicapped bicycle riders will pedal 500 miles across Iowa in one week, and thoroughly enjoy themselves. I watched an 11 year old girl sing a song many seasoned adult vocalists wouldn't try. A mobile phone salesman blew an audience away with his vocal talent. A blind man climbed Mount Everest and an Iditarod Champion became the only person who ran an entire dog-team up the almost 21,000 foot Mt. Denali. An autistic boy saved his mother's life, performing a series of emergency tasks like CPR before help arrived to stabilize the patient. They aren't supposed to be able to do that.

Squirrels--hairy, skittish, tree-jumping, nut cracking bundles of talent doing something humans believed untenable. Most of us believe the bird-feeder manufacturer until they witness, like I did, the very thing men said was impossible. Lots of doubting Thomases.

God never said a man couldn't climb Mt. Everest blind, we did. Seeing is believing, so what did the blind man have to work with? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believed. God never claimed He would not raise from the dead, in fact He most assuredly said He would. Believe it.

There's a lot going on that you claim to be impossible. Think about that awhile.

11-year-old Singing Sensation

Girls Play Bach on a Giant Piano

The Circus

So, last night I worked. I'm a security guard at the local civic center. I check doors, check badges, give directions and read books. If given the chance to throw someone down, well, my dreams tell me that I'd perform magnificently--one little "hi-yaaaa" and a sweet Hulk Hogan sleeper hold and wallah, another criminal off the streets. Truth is I've spent more time in the Choir than on Karate--I might instead be more like Chuck Barry than Chuck Norris, but I have my dreams.

Last night was dance recital night. The kids play dress-up, turning themselves into queens, hobos, crooners and clowns. Back stage looks less like a room full of pulleys and ropes than it does Pharaoh's own castle.

One either loves the circus or hates it. I'm a little of both, but I love the spectacle. One thousand nervous, excited, if not a little petulant, dancers doesn't usually sound like my idea of fun. Add parents with every kind of expectation and entitlement to back-stage, awkward but arrogant demands that their children have this right or that, lovely negotiations with me about why I should let them in before the doors actually open and more...you understand? A hoity-toity circus.

I love dance, I do. I might even be the person who'd send my own kid to dance class. But I can't wrap my brain around the hoity-toity. They're like a game of space-invaders. Hundreds of little colorful ships gliding left, right and all around. My little laser is blazing away, pew pew pew. But then the big ships (parents) come into play. They land and game over. "Hello," I say. Most of them look at security guards like they do dandelions--they look pretty good, but gotta mow them over anyway or they'll spread like the plague. This was the rich crowd and security guards are a different level. I'm not offended really. They love the parade, I enjoy the circus.

Summer's here so white is in. White shorts, pants or capris, accessorized by expensive and colorful accoutrements -- bags made by Gucci, Dolce, and whatever other yadayada Italian this-or-that one can think of. The women have bags, the men have watches. I love the spectacle. I wonder if one drop-kicked a hoity-toity that they might fall in movie-like slow-motion? I wonder? Then it might be appropriate for throngs of angels to appear out of no-where and applaud their bravery?

My wife likes to dress up, and she's beautiful--a bonafied hotty. But I don't think she knows that June 18 is the day to make the "summer-white" turn. I'll have to let her know.

Although, come to think of it, white wasn't exclusive. One chap wore a green cardigan, held a green Pringles can in one hand, and a green Mountain Dew bottle in the other. Besides the fact that he matched his soda bottle, I was slightly surprised he'd accept Pringles crumbs inside his beautiful Cadillac.

There are rules. Summer day white is different than summer evening white. And the men wear light blue, green, even red is acceptable--mostly blue and "dance recital-night" khaki though. It's only the kid's dance recital at one of the nicest venues in town--I didn't see any pin-stripes or black ties, but I enjoyed the circus-parade none-the-less. I think if I could have some kind of x-ray vision I bet you anything that even their perfume and cologne wafts from their bodies in delightful, pleasant and wistful little circles. The kids dress-up and the parents follow a strict dress code. All night long I wasn't sure which tap dance I wanted to watch more, the kids or the parents? All the Jones's were keeping up with each other.

The circus allows us to forget the troubles of the day for awhile. I was glad to attend this circus. Every one at the event danced, the kids on stage and the parents everywhere else. One lovely woman defied the code and dressed in purple...but, I kid you not, she walked by my lowly station and I caught a grand whiff of her allergy-inducing perfume--grape--not the kind of grape one might smell near a winery--like grape gum. She was purple and smelled like grape. Hoity-freakin-toity. No one offered me pop-corn and cotton candy, so in their stead, I relished my peanut butter and honey sandwich, my Sun chips and enjoyed a cold diet-pepsi.

The circus hasn't always had the best reputation. It seems some delights come at the expense of others, and they please the voyeuristic side in all of us. I suppose we should feel a little guilty about that.

But, I loved my day at the circus. Now, can someone teach me Karate?

Thou Shalt Not Litter

I don't have writer's block really. I can't seem to focus on a subject. In fact I have too many of them. Too many questions. In one single minute on Sunday I had five random thoughts, most of them somewhat deep and all of them taking me down a different rabbit trail.

Scripture says in Ecclesiastes that "there is nothing new underneath the sun...". Yet all of us respects originality. We respect new fashion, original ideas, new stories, personality changes, original parenting techniques, original tattoos etc.

Wisdom given to any of us by parents, mentors or friends often pares down to, "Think outside the box." If nothing is new underneath the sun, if there are a specific set of rules, if there are boundaries that are not to be crossed, then what does it mean to "think outside the box?"

I was born with a birth defect that might've killed me, shouldn't have allowed me to walk and most certainly could not have allowed me to get rid of my leg braces. I have limitations--I'm not the fastest Joe in the world and I'll never win a balance contest. However, if you want me to teach you how to fall properly, I'm most certainly an expert! Is that thinking outside the box? I'm within my circumstances, but have learned how to use what I have somewhat originally. Do you want to learn how to fall properly? My services are cheap but I don't pay your hospital bills should your "trip and fall" learning curve be steeper than some.

SO I won't win a marathon or a sprint...but what happens if I didn't have to be on my feet? Bicycles! Motorcycles! I know my limitations--I'm not great on my feet, but I'm awesome off my feet. I know my limitations--my calf muscles are small and insignificant, so in order to ride well I need to develop my hamstrings, quads and my thighs. I know my limitations, I know my boundaries. I need a car that sits a little higher and that has excellent back support--or I need a motorcycle. Sounds weird, right? Think outside the box--I can lean into the bike, my back really has no support but it's allowed to stretch and lean and I'm allowed to move relatively freely. I don't have to lift myself out of a motorcycle in the same way that I have to lift myself out of a car. And, with a little adjustment of the shifter, I can adjust the bike to fit my right foot.

I fit within my boundaries--it's just that one or two of those boundaries are flexible. I won't murder, steal or cheat on my wife--those are fixed boundaries, but I can't see myself in a box from which I just think my way out of. I'm going to ride my bicycle 500 miles in one week, in just over a month. What's so amazing about a Spina Bifida on a bicycle? Everything and nothing. I ride as if I know I can. I ride because God gave me legs. You're amazed, and I'm just doing what I can. Maybe I'm limited in my scope? Being on a bicycle is normal to me...an absolute joy for me...then what would be thinking outside the 'box' for me?

Gravity is a rule right? Even astronauts must succumb to limitations caused by atmosphere and gravity. They can't enter or leave the atmosphere at, or from, any angle--astronauts follow a very particular flight path. I have Spina Bifida, I can't escape that. Therefore everything I do, including a bicycle ride, must follow a particular regiment - a specific "flight path" - in order to successfully navigate the limitations imposed by Spina Bifida. Because I know those things, I'm rarely held to any particular distance or dissuaded from many challenges. I'm on a bicycle all the time. I've biked all over the world--Alaska, Amsterdam, Adel (IA), Ashworth Road (nothing significant about Ashworth, I just needed a fourth "A" word). Boundaries stretch.

So nothing is new under the sun, people haven't changed much, the world hasn't changed much. Everything is, at the very core, familiar. Denise at her blog called "A Sacred Longing" said, "I tend to cling to the familiar. Hide in the usual. Wither in the expected." I'm not distressed by the common. I enjoy my routine. But within the common routine, realize that some inescapable boundaries are also stretchable. Our lives are made of moments that look much like slipping on a littered banana peel that you yourself threw to the ground and stepped on--on purpose!

We turn "life-litter" into walls, impassable boundaries. We slip and trip, then retreat. We can't seem to move beyond them, most often because we fear everything beyond them, even though the self-devised boundaries, your walls prove more damaging than anything beyond them. Thou shalt not litter!

I'll never become a ballerina--my boundaries don't stretch that far. But I'm going to eat my banana, and I'm going to throw the peel in a can well off my path. Then I'm going to gear up, clip in, and ride.

If you are interested... here's my first RAGBRAI ride: