Revelations & Reactions

Cottonwoods

2011-07-08T10:47:00.003-05:00

Floating cotton fields
Perspired July cottonwoods
Curvy summer winds

Rarin' to Roll

2011-06-16T14:45:00.004-05:00

Dad got his 1985 250cc motorcycle running after sitting in the garage for more than 25 years. He was knocked over by a ferocious German Shepherd on his way out of the driveway one morning on his way to work. That dog was more than a pain in the neck. He was bloody mean. And I guess he hated motorcycles and didn't like dad much either, making him less of a dog in my eyes. I don't remember that he rode it again. He came back into the house a little bloodied, his hands shaking. I think I remember that he didn't get too excited. I think he always sensed that his wife and his family needed his surety, even when he should be freaking out. The bike lay there on the dirt. That Shepherd held dad at bay for awhile. Eventually he got the bike moved to the garage, and there it sat, a bit tainted, but ready nonetheless. The motorcycle became more a dusty fixture than anything. That's the way of things sometimes. Maybe we needed to forget for awhile. Maybe he couldn't afford to fix it. A man's allowed his reasons. It's all good. By faith and time, wiles and dreams, some hard work, wisdom and a little integrity, some times things come full circle.

Here we are, a good ways down 2011 and his classic 250cc Honda motorcycle is finally fixed, and my Dad is back on the bike! Maybe enough time has past, maybe they can afford it. Doesn't matter really. The courageous don't just get back on the horse, so to speak. They hop on with spurs on. I remember sitting on that bike as a boy thinking I wanted to ride it, needed to ride it, so I could be just like my dad. I doubt I'll ever have to dust off my dad. He gets hurt sometimes, but never stops. Some guys stop. They quit. He'll never be a cranky chained, stiff wheeled old man, my dad won't. At sixty-something he's slower maybe. He smells a few more roses these days. But he paces himself. I don't crank my bike hardly ever. Best way to ruin something is to go full tilt all the time. Takes wisdom to keep it cool.

I guess I'll never be just like my munificent dad. But, I am my father's son. When I finally ride it someday soon, I'll feel proud to have the privilege of sharing a part of his life on that little red dream. The German Shepherd's dead. But it's hard to keep a good man and his ride down. The bike, my dad and myself are alive, ready and rarin' to roll.

Thank You for Serving

2011-05-30T10:20:00.017-05:00

Both my dad and my wife's dad came home one day after a long 'bout in Vietnam. They returned to a country that seemed either to hate him or that wasn't aware he'd come home, maybe wasn't even certain he was ever home in the first place. They were, like immigrant America, tired and poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free. These were the homeless and tempest-tossed we'd sent, some of them more homeless than ever because we did. Some, we'd not yet earned their trust and yet they defended us. My lungs well with thankful heaves. For Americans of every journey, America's not a land, it's a mindset, a way of life.

Was a quiet day when our camo-covered dads landed back on our soil. I'll forever salute our dads and be grateful that they returned home. I'll forever cross my heart and sing loudly and proudly for the ones who couldn't make it home.

Turns out my birth defect called Spina Bifida has something to do with Agent Orange. Agent Orange was not a Dutch super-spy, although it certainly fell from aircraft...was much less elusive though. Agent Orange, the mighty jungle obliterator, the weaponized pesticide, has much to do with when dad served the United States in Vietnam. The U.S. spread that stuff--thought it would help--tried to keep the war out of the jungles by killing the jungle. Lasting effect though is more an example of types of friendly fire. That and everything about war is a lot to sacrifice and a lot to deal with in a lifetime. Few soldiers dream for death and war and Agent Orange, but they go when called on. No one truly understands the powerful motives for war, the cause of cause, the paradigms or what it is about their nation that's worthy, always worth the defense, but they serve and defend anyway. Few truly understand the courage and strength that is the current and currency of a soldier facing the tip of a gun, or the switch of an IED, potentially laced with sarin, or stand in the breach for those whom they love within a nation that is theirs; for they who huddle in homes nestled on a fuzzy line between right and wrong.

I suppose we could relate a bit of what it is to stand in the breach for another; we'd resist opposition to great lengths for our children, for our friend. We'd honor them with our lives wouldn't you think?

I know soldiers; intrepid but welted soldiers, flew home to open arms of family and friends who'd in poignant ways gotten used to life without them...had to just in case they couldn't return. Some sons or daughters waited whom hadn't even met their own dads yet. That sacrifice straps to the servant soldier's back one-hundred pounds at a time; geared up men and women who form, who run, who crouch who lie. They return home to open arms of family wishing for a large dose of love and a little of what was, and getting large or small doses of PTSD and at the very least...scars. War makes life harder to love sometimes. War makes it difficult to mow the lawn, paint the walls, go out to eat or watch the kids perform some kind of thing...any kind of thing. Scars make or break families.

These men and women know these soul-traps are coming and yet they bind themselves to ships and guns and aircraft ready to defend what they love. Duty requires these men and women to look into the faces of other men and women from other places, other nations and hold their own people, the immigrant home, richly in their heart; for they must look upon full-on men and women and then fight them.

War. A sometimes necessary, sometimes penurious, impoverishing experience.

We've heard stories of oppression and suppression and extreme cruelty to people of other lands, and we've heard of cruelty on our own soil and these evils must expect push-back, must accept the righteous torrent that seeks evil's erasure. These evils--they're worth eradicating, worth pushing back. The faithful desire besting monsters.

There are long histories of boogeymen under the bed.

A caveat: The people of God are no strangers to monsters--we know. Sometimes those who call themselves the people of God are the monsters. It's sometimes difficult to speak for, let alone hear the voice of God. We just can't be perfect people, even as we constantly wish we were. We know there's something about freedom that's easier to explain than reveal, even as it's revealed anyway. It takes certain people of faith to stand for the others, with the others and by the others; takes certain people to hold people safely on their path.

Good men desire peace--yearn for it. Sometimes oppression must be quelled so that peace ensues. But peace does not need a cause to call itself peace. Darkness is not the opposite of light, for light is something. Darkness needs the light for those to understand they've been in darkness, not the other way around. The American people--we're not perfect--have many flaws. But I know one thing. We seek a free people wherever we send you soldier. That knowledge alone can lift a man covered in soot, jungle, rock and sand.

I don't know what you saw my friend, I don't know what you experienced or how. I know you served humbly the freedom cause. And I know it wasn't silent the day you returned because there were many of us with open arms, hoping you were ok, hoping you could now survive this life, and you will. Because our arms will never close to you, only around you.

It was a loud and joyful day when you returned home brother and sister, we're mindful that while you are safe, you might not feel secure. And it was and is with great pride that we receive you, and by an eternity of gratefulness we now protect you.

Thank you for serving soldier. A free people welcomes you home. God bless you.

To Thee We Raise

2011-01-25T10:29:00.001-06:00

To Thee We Raise a poem by r. elgersma

Drops of rain slide

From eye to cheek

A path like war,

A realist’s version

Of those who fall

Where they love.

Like, the heavily dusked,

And thinly layered moon

A resting reflection of another’s light

And a husband to her.

The righteous man forebears honesty

And the foolish continuously repairs it.

Even a love’s loss finds it again,

Where unctuous abuse knows love not.

Submission and servanthood,

One whole, and the same,

And there I am where you fall,

And rise again.

A woman’s submission

is not subservience

Or weakness, nor her will dominant,

And a man’s headship is not

Overpowering or abusive,

Nor his will dominant.

A wife submits and loves when she allows

Her husband to lift her,

Perfect, before the Lord,

And a husband provides and loves

When he proves the servant’s

Strength and humility to lift her.

I am grateful not to be alone,

And that you are part of where I am.

For the beauty of the earth

And the glory of the skies.

For the love which from our birth

Over and around us lies.

Lord of all, to Thee we raise,

This, our hymn of grateful praise.

Recessed in Ritual

2011-01-17T17:20:00.004-06:00

I understand differences in how people prepare for worship. I find verbal and non-verbal cues to be important in many, if not most cases. But views about worship settle into God as audience, and man as performer, giver or prompter (the term "prompter" should be given proper citation to my dad-in-law Joh who writes his own blog at http://joh-corrie.blogspot.com/). I believe God is audience--but he's also in our midst, directing, proving, probing, teaching, prompting, revealing and so on. I don't believe we can restrict God's roles to audience in worship, and I don't believe we can relegate, for instance, the Praise Team to a one dimensional prompting role.

And so, I'm wondering if Christians don't just misplace values on worship tasks? Martin Luther King Jr. once said, ‎"An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity." I'd like to squish that quote smack in the middle of historically religious stigma. Historical verbal or non-verbal cues regarding rightful value placements were how the church developed the hierarchal pedestal complex value toward pastors and priests who were often seen as more holy than anyone else. And someone down the line decided that musicians who do extra work other than lead the congregational singing, should deem their solo work as "special music." The greater church have become riddled with titles for tasks, and have become confused as to whether something is more or less special, a performance, a prompt or something else, and thus have become confused as to how to respond to it. I've seen too many great musical or non-musical performers walk off stage met by legalistic silence-ridden congregants afraid of an unrighteous applause. Furthermore, when the values are not adequately met in whatever scenario, the semantic worshipper blames their experience on someone else, and a blame-game ensues.

The quality of the sound, or music, or sermon should not shatter or shudder the joy of a group of people who can't wait to be together as children of God, knowing that God is with them. Worship unbridled from mis-tokened titles frees audience response to song and sermon and resounds joyfully regardless, simply because God is. In fact, in that environment, people are amazingly unshackled and allowed to burst into relational qualities previously unheard of, and that had previously felt uncomfortable. For instance, a participant could then learn to enjoy the performer, performance, prompt, and the praise all from and by the same person. Sometimes, when someone does a great job, they're afforded a bonus, or a promotion. When a performer does a great job, they in kind, are afforded excellent applause, if not because they were great, but also then because they're God's. And so applaud the performer and praise God. Both are simultaneously good reasons to clap your hands. A confident performer is upheld by the encouragement and appreciation just as many others are glad to be appreciated or responded to based on their own actions or generosity.

Worshipers shouldn't run willy-nilly into a worship experience. Form and function matter. That church leaders, workers and musicians are healthy and prepared for their task, absolutely; Most situations in or out of church are met by people whom expect good jobs out of each other. Yet, I hope you'll flee from legalism, pietism and dogma recessed in rote ritual.

Engage in massive, infinite worship. Sometimes we need to release our value placements from the experience. Maybe God is our audience, but he's also the director and prompter I suppose one could say--he directs and also reminds us of our lines. I do like that image (again see Joh Huizinga's blog). Furthermore, a good director requires practice, and requires you to be ready to take joy in all things because He is, thereby freeing you to clap at a moments notice.

It's my view that when Christ said that if an action (feeding the hungry, dressing the naked) was done to the least of men, it is also done to Him (Matthew 25:40), his broader message was, "I love a cheerful giver, give to my glory, do not expect the seat of honor, allow it to be given to you and then enjoy it, and be generous to all men for my glory." This means that by praising a someone for an excellent performance, by enjoying a sermon, by appreciating an intuitive point, and by thanking or rewarding someone for their excellent work, one also acts as a man or woman who's every intended regard is to the glory of God.

Light and Worship

2011-01-16T13:45:00.002-06:00

"Did you think that being a Christian means you need to live a bland and boring life? Never! Christ calls us to be spicy!" That's the quote on my church's website. I love the church. I believe that we are one body, many locations; my church makes no qualms about saying exactly that.

My friend's waiting for a flight at the Denver airport. He texted me saying, "I guess I get to do worship on my own. I have several sermons on my phone." He went on to say, "There are a lot of people in my church that would not consider that worship."

There's so much worship out there. Pastor Mike asked us when was the last time we simply stopped confounded by some amazing creation moment. I drove into my driveway a few days ago and a doe skirted in front of my car and ran past. I drove into the garage, walked out of my garage, and there she was, a few feet off my driveway, watching me. I stood and watched her--truthfully, I talked to her. It was silent, it was night, I stopped confounded; I worshipped. That a God constructed a confounding creational moment coerces me to fall, trembling, and raise my joyful hands simultaneously. Paradoxical maybe, but God is.

There's infinite worship out there. Not much light streams into places that can't accept a man who would worship by a headphone sermon. Not much light streams into their tiny, austere little religious holes.

Candy Sticks

2010-11-23T09:45:00.006-06:00

Candy Sticks a poem by richard elgersma

God loved on the day a strong,
social, welcoming and responsive
helpmate filled a cracked man
on the fault line.

The man quaked and she mended.
He gave hope to him
when He gave him the strength
to see you.

Four words and the experience
of an honest, honorable
and tough woman covered him
and laid an entire foundation

Beneath a man
who might one day
serve with her to become
the same for the fractured.

Four words,
"I believe in you"
she said.
I believe in you.

Now, she is sweet,
and he yearns for her
as if a wondering child,
dips his hand into the jar

To grasp eagerly
and taste the cacophonous
striped rainbow candy stick
as if his soul depends upon it.

Who is opposite of Lucifer and the Angels?

2010-11-19T12:39:00.005-06:00

I'm writing to those who understand that the Christian bible, the words of God, is inspired by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, for training in righteousness. I'm writing to those who believe that Salvation comes by the will of God the Father, through the blood of God the son Jesus Christ, revealed and sealed by the power of God the Holy Spirit, and that the three are one.

The challenge says, "I'll give you a word and you give me the opposite of the word given." The one will say "night" and the other will say, "day" and so on. So what does one say if the word was, "God"? Would you automatically say "Lucifer" or "Satan"?

You would be wrong.

The opposite of "Lucifer" might be, "Michael" but is most definitely not "God." God has no opposites. Angels were most definitely created. Angels awe God, fear God, and worship God, do not know when the day of the Lord will be and do not understand the salvation of man. Lucifer is extremely power and intensely beautiful, but can by no means oppose God with any type of finality, and thus could never be His opposite.

Therefore, we verbalize Lucifer oddly and wrongly. I've written about angels before. Angels are not cute winged babies pinging arrows off of would-be lovers and they're not a frenetic, lanky gathering of sweet choir members.

But they are created beings. The angels were created by God. Psalm 104 gives us a small picture about the order of the creative act. The next act after the creation of the cosmos is the creation of the Angels after which God laid the foundations of the earth, meaning the entirety of the Angel population was created in and around what Genesis said was the second day.

It's also true that Satan is not red, not ugly and does not have grossly enhanced horns. Lucifer is the son of the morning, an angel of light. The meaning of Eden means "delight" and God calls the created Lucifer "eden" in Ezekiel 28. Dr. J. Dwight Pentecost writes:

Musical instruments were originally designed to be means of praising and worshiping God. It was not necessary for Lucifer to learn to play a musical instrument in order to praise God. If you please, he had a built-in pipe organ, or, he was an organ! That’s what the prophet meant when he said, “The workmanship of thy tabrets and of thy pipes....” Lucifer, because of his beauty, did what a musical instrument would do in the hands of a skilled musician – bring forth a psalm of praise to the glory of God. Lucifer didn't have to look for someone to play the organ so that he could sing the doxology – he was a doxology. (Your Adversary the Devil, p. 16, about Ezekiel 28)

This was, I believe, the indelible impression of the serpent Lucifer by Adam and Eve when confronted by Lucifer. The serpent was, for some reason, awe inspiring (Adam and Eve seemed to be mesmerized by the serpent), and undeniable. F. C. Jennings writes:

The word for “serpent” in Hebrew is nachash, which may come from the root, to hiss; or, as Dr. Taylor Lewis writes, “is far more likely to have had its sense from the secondary meaning of that root – to shine, whence brass, the shining metal.” This gives, as the first thought in the word for serpent, “splendor,” “glistening,” “bright,” “shining,” either from its glossy appearance, or, more likely, from the bright glistening of the eye. The first impressions of mankind in regards to the serpent were of the splendid and terrible kind – beauty and awe. (Satan, His Person, Work, Place, and Destiny, p. 15)

Lucifer's perfectly created duty was to watch over the earth, to tend to it (Job 38:4-7), and so to be thrown to the earth to be viewed by all the rulers of the world was a great punishment. Lucifer had a great and mighty duty, and the loss of the duty was a loss to the nations of the earth, a great tragedy (Isaiah 14:12). It's clear that Lucifer's sense of overreach and sense of duty were still at conflict when he came to Jesus in the desert to tempt him. He teased God with the duty that God Himself had originally given to him. God was approachable to Lucifer as he did when Job was tormented. Therefore, it was little surprise that he would approach God in the desert. Jesus knew He was God, and there's no difficulty understanding that Lucifer understood this as well. Many other fallen angels during Christ's ministry were unquestioning as to Jesus's identity (Mark 3:11). Jesus knew Himself being in the very nature, God. He did not consider it even a question that He was God, therefore because He acts according to His perfection, part of God's nature is humility and is justice, as evidenced by Christ's fulfillment to His Covenant with His people by His death and resurrection. Lucifer has no real need to understand God in this way because mankind is not qualified by the existence of an Angel. Lucifer is no less in a battle with God, but not in the matter of taking sides as it were--Satan still truly believes he has more power than he does, and he has truly distorted the charge over the earth that God gave him (Ezekiel 28).

The bible makes no claim to the equal position of the Angels with God. In fact, God says through His scriptures that they have no idea about the time of the day of the Lord (Matthew 24:36-37), that the Angels fear God (James 2:19), that the Angels are servants of the Lord, and lastly that the Angels do not understand the idea of the salvation of God (I Peter 1:12). They have little idea about the conception of the plan of God. Therefore, Satan couldn't understand why Christ died but instead, I believe he knew that God had not gone away, but was very much...God. Furthermore, because Angels, including Lucifer, cannot understand Salvation, I also believe that Satan is not trying to "wreck" the salvation of man. While they are in charge of the Judgement (read Revelation), they are most certainly not in charge of judging. Lucifer does want to devour man, devour creation (I Peter 5:8). Lucifer does want to convince man to separate himself from God in the same manner that he himself did (Genesis 3:1-10) because he believed and believes that the human creation could (and can) separate himself from God. And if he could convince man to do so by his own power, that he would be poised to usurp the power to rule for himself, and in such Lucifer's dominion would be complete--or so he thought. Angels were created with many different purposes than man; in part they were created to tend to all of creation, specifically man himself. God created Angels with powers and abilities man could not conceive of, and at the very least, Satan understood his basic powers were no match for man. Satan illegitimately believes he can act independently of God (Job 1:6), can thwart God, and continues to this day to aspire to more power than he could possibly grasp. In regard to man, Lucifer proves jealous, having seen God walk with Adam -- I believe it's more possible that Lucifer and the fallen angels simply seek to devour because they're furious with God and jealous of him, not because they intend to remove the rite of salvation from man, as if it was creation's choice to do so in the first place. It's not possible that Satan wants man to go "to be with him" (in hell) because Satan only understands that he was given dominion over the earth, and doesn't grasp anything beyond that particular reality. I'm not sure that Lucifer comprehends that man can be saved or lost; instead I believe that he suffers from the age old delusion that he can assume God's position.

Angels, nor man himself, can expound on God's glory; any man who has come close falls over dead and any angel who tried was thrown out of heaven. By getting thrown out of Heaven, Satan did not suddenly achieve the status of cosmic and equal opponent of God. Do not get in the habit of worshipping angels, nor wishing upon their work (Col. 2:18).

Angels do not age and do not spend time trying to earn their wings. Humans do die and do not become Angels. God's Angels exist eternally as they were created, and humankind exist in the same manner.

Angels start with all of Creation: Col. 1:16 says for by Him all things were created in heaven and on earth, visible or invisible, thrones, dominions, principalities or powers--all things were created by Him.

I might be wrong about these things, and I most certainly did not exhaust the study of angels within this blog entry. But I wanted to open this study to you, in hopes that you might be strengthened and emboldened. I believe that Christians fall vulnerable to the wiles of evil in part because of our false perception that God has an opposite, and that somehow God, by being amongst us, potentially falls prey to whom we perceive is his opposite. By no means was this ever true.

Judge retention, politics and God

2010-11-09T11:10:00.010-06:00

I need the ear, or the eyes as it were, of Christians and the non-religious alike.

Many Americans often vote according to a candidates views about one or two specific issues such as military benefits or taxes or abortion, and some vote straight-line Republican or straight-line Democrat because that's what their family has always done. But I've met very few haters--I have met a few--but only a few. The recent Iowa vote proved interesting not because the candidates that were chosen was an unpredictable vote, but because three Iowa Supreme Court justices were voted out of their jobs. Their positions had come up for a retention vote. A judicial retention vote differs from a regular election. Voters can't vote between a list of judicial candidates and the judges do not have opponents. Rather, the voter chooses to elect incumbent judge(s) to a further or not the judge's term in office. Iowa retains judges if ballots cast in favor of retention outnumber votes against. In 1962, Iowa voters approved constitutional reform replacing the judge selection by popular vote with a merit selection and retention election process. The process intends to select the best qualified applicants and judicial accountability and protects public oversight, a nation of the people, by the people and for the people. Why must the people be involved? Because the judicial nominating committee by the nature of the committee itself won't be impartial--like everything they need checks and balances.

The 15 member committee, as I understand it, is balanced by gender and a number of other factors, but is not balanced by political affiliation. Currently, the board is 86% Democrat. Of the Judges Democrat Governors appointed 5 of the judges, and none of the 7 judges are or ever have been registered Republicans. Judge Baker, although claiming to be independent gave thousands to the Democrats. There are others who've donated to the Democratic party over the years including Wiggins, and Appel, the latter donated tens of thousands to Democratic party.

My point is that all of these people, including past Governors have implemented their rights within the process. It's easy to over-politicize the system based on prejudices, but I'm alright with a process based on the rights within a system. Does that mean the system is fair? I don't think this process is entirely fair or impartial, but it's still a system that protects and expects judicial impartiality, and does a good job of it. I suppose I just muddied the idea of "good", but there's nothing new there -- For example, I did good yesterday, even though I probably didn't do everything quite right. There's another post in that sentence alone.

I voted to retain the judges, and many did not. In the end, they were not retained. I voted to retain them because they made many hundreds and probably thousands of decisions and many (probably not all, they are human) of them were just decisions, meaning they performed exactly as the system requires them to perform and beyond. Thousands of times they did exactly as the citizens of the state of Iowa and the United States of America expected them too. Some decisions fell well outside of popular opinion, but they were just and, according to them, the Constitution experts, constitutional. I agree the majority of Iowans said that they did not want something, and the Judges, said "too bad, we have to go against you on this one." I personally can't say whether or not their political agendas biased them--I have a feeling they did--everyone has leanings. Their political leanings probably helped usher the issue to the front of the line, and they were pleased to proceed unrestricted, but that doesn't mean they made an unconstitutional decision.

I personally do not want the Judicial branch to become politicized. I don't want them to have to campaign for an impartial job. They do not necessarily have to cater to the will of the majority because they don't act as legislators, they act as guardians, unmeasured by popularity.

But the people are the last check in the balance system, and I'm for that. We are a partial people, for one idea, against another; most of these yeses and nays are based upon partial nurturing. I'm not afraid to tell you that I'm against abortion and by saying that I oppose legislators that are for abortion. That vote alone doesn't make me against women or against families or against men because anyone who knows me, knows better. None of us can be pigeonhole by the vote. I'm inconsistent because I'm partial and by no means does that make me a bad person. I'm partial to military families and so Rep. Boswell (D) falls on my positive list some of the time. I was against some of the things Grassley (R) did, but I love his affiliations to Camp Hope and so he falls on my positive list some of the time. Sometimes I vote for something because I'm against another something, and sometimes I vote for something because I'm conservative and sometimes I vote because I want to protect something. My partiality is one reason why Judges should be protected from my politicizing them because they voted for or against something, and I disagreed with them. And yet the people need to protect their constitutionally driven right that the system works because of them.

But, while I'm concerned about decisions, no political decision changes the message. I believe God is despite the politicization of what we've decided God wants. Sometimes we try to put words in God's mouth, and by doing so often shoot the wounded, and maim the sick. Therefore, my message of salvation doesn't change, won't ever change whether you put me in prison for my beliefs or not. If you're willing to politicize whomever you decide you need to protect, you're willing to put someone else in jeopardy by that very politicization. History reveals many bad laws that allowed for the persecution of Christians, laws that allowed the genocide of the Jews, and laws that prepare eight year olds for war. Please don't be willing.

All I'm asking you to do is come and see what I believe about God, about Grace, about the blood of Christ. We are made of imperfect people who need God. But I'm also certain that the majority of the Christians I've ever come in contact with, and that have become my friends are not haters, in fact most of them love more genuinely that most other people. But they're afraid of losing the value system that they believe has held this nation together, and in some ways, they're right. Studies show that Christians are generally happier, live longer, are sick less often, are less bitter; and yet tunnel vision sets in and Christians settle into their recessed vision of morality with the belief that these set of principles are how we can wrest this nation from the hand of the devil for God, as if God is not already intimately involved in the process of history, present and future.

The Christian morality does, in fact, intend life's beauty to be engaged abundantly. We don't have to compromise others because of our faith because politics doesn't change the message. We can promote Christ to them, and God will change those whom hear us speak (II Corinthians 5:14-18) Our politics becomes our law-ridden sacrifice, when God asked for our obedience. I fear that many of the religious, Christian or not, bend to politicizing their beliefs, or at the very least allowed professional, impassioned politickers, to influence them. Politickers are often good people--they are--but they're also experts at knowing what information influences constituents, and it works because most constituents don't have the time for due diligence. But these politickers are also willing to vilify someone in order to deface him or her or them. A Christian must read Romans 13 before the process begins again in another year. So many Christians, so many of the religious in general, and also the so many of the non-religious believe that politics will save their religion, save their beliefs. We're asked to hate sin, we're asked to hate injustice--even judges are prone to error sometimes, and they must be held accountable. Iowans had a right to make their own decision and I am pleased that the process again meted its voice, based on its own merits. The people, all people have a right to decide what they believe would be best for their societies. But don't engage because you think you're holding the system in check for God. The message of God can come from a politician. I'm a Christian statesman, I can't be anything but Christian. I'm also for upholding the Declaration that all men of every taste have a right to the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness according to their sense of what that means, as long as we're not every man for him/herself. You can't ignore me, and thus I won't ignore you. God hears and listens and acts. I'm not trying to put words in God's mouth. Rather, God puts words in mine. Your rights do not change my message that you need a savior. Despite how you wish to live, it's a simple thing to believe that Christ died for your sins and rose again securing for your salvation. It's a simple thing to believe that God reigns and simply, is. More difficult, scary and mortifying is to believe that we're random. You say I sound crazy, I say I sound more sane than the impossible fixation on another cause. In the end, there is no other way.

You can try to legislate against me for that belief, you can even kill me for it. Conversely, I can attempt to make you act Christian by political promotion. Neither succeeds in the end. The problem with trying to politick God is it's never right to make God relative to one's politics. One Christian's methods, actions and word choices might deem different than another Christian's methods, actions and word choices. Inject yourselves into politics, of course! Misguided as we are sometimes, doesn't mean we shouldn't fully vet ourselves into the American political system. I'm not afraid to be right, and neither should you be. Remember, God is neither Republican, Democrat, Libertarian or Independent. Therefore, your politics spewed without love is only a resounding gong or a clanging symbol (I Corinthians 13). You want an ordered and Christian-like political system--but you sacrifice so many by your feelings of what that should look like (II Corinthians 5:16 NLT).

Look--God does not need to imbibe your politics. He doesn't derive power from an external source, as if he needs a good weight lifting session in order to flex his muscles. I know the words of God through Scripture and I understand what it is to guard my heart and I am fully aware of the gift of faith that streams through me. But I live in love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Judgment is God’s. All of you are welcome at my table. I'm not a Republican or a Democrat--I have my leanings--I am conservative, and I understand why I am conservative, and I appreciate the conservative point of view--and yet many of you on any side of a table has influenced my paradigms and I am better for it. Either way, my politics and my country require me to be generous to all, allowed to love on you, allow you to pursue your rights, allow you to be an amazing person (II Corinthians 5:16 NLT); but my bent or yours is merely that. I'm not saved by my political affiliation; I'd only be disappointed if I were.

As always, my ideas aren't always the right one, but in the same way, just because someone whom doesn't think like me says something is just, doesn't necessarily make it so. What is truth though is that you and I still need a Savior. Come and see.

Tattoos and Hope

2010-11-03T09:32:00.004-05:00

I understand why some people ink tattoos into their skin. Well, I understand many of the reasons people ink tattoos into their skin. Most tattooees want to remember something meaningful about their life, want to give an event such significance that serves as a constant memory driven banner. Of course tattoos bear a tougher, more gritty, more fashionable aura than say, a string tied around around a finger.

We saw an old WWII war ship retired on the Ohio River on the banks of an Illinois town. She now serves patrons as a museum and a gift shop. I suppose, like a tattoo that, while none of the most important technology even exists on the ship anymore, being forever classified, that the ship serves as an American tattoo of triumph and tragedy. I'm not sure the appeal an old but furious gun ship that grips onlookers. If you were honest, when she was in full service you would not have wanted to be close to the ship. Some get the tattoo, others the scar of war.

I'm slightly offended that a man's work aboard that ship, any ship, can be reduced to souvies and treats. I guess monuments such as a stripped down ship offer people hope of triumph, for what it's worth.

And so there she was, proud, strong and dormant. I suppose she still echoes with the scars of deep waters; we all do in our own way. I turned from the big ship and I and my friends drove away still wondering what there was to remember. Earlier we'd taken a walk down a path along the Ohio river to a visitor center nearby. A flag rope clanked against a flagpole near the center and hanging from it was an old, tattered, ripped up American flag--looked more like a rat hanging from a pole. I was offended and I told someone that I was. I tell you I'm not a people of rats. The flag did not inspire hope.

I'm not sure the old retired ship did either. I get that people fight, but I hate that death remains the only way to save a people.

That's how it was with Christ. I'm glad I'm safe, but I'm not glad that he had to suffer like he did. I wish humans hadn't needed such sacrifice. But a person willing to go out and save his people seems like something to honor, even if you're not glad about it. Their wounds are our tattoo, our honor are theirs.

And so yesterday, the triumphant waved banners and promised balanced budgets, integrity in the office and new ways of thinking. The last night's speeches rang triumphant, but hinted toward an uppity tremor of supremacy and leaned into disdain. I heard the same disdain, even cruelty four years ago when the Democrats won the House, the Senate and then two years ago, the Presidency. The winners bore their Visigothic chests. I think people hoped that leaders lived their message, that being hope, unity and fairness, but instead gained division and more disdain. The same has been heard all over the world for as many years as the world's existed. But I'm here now. This means something to me now. Now some new folks are in D.C., and last night, more triumph with a slightly distasteful edge. I know what I don't like. I don't like abortion, testing from aborted children, high taxes and big government. I have my vote, but friends, neighbors and Americans alike certainly do not have my disdain.

And I heard little last night about those of us who were on other lands striving for freedom within the longest engaged war effort in U.S. history. They desire that their leaders ink another honored tat on their hearts, but were instead, virtually ignored. I think we need less disdain. A kind word turns away wrath says the Proverbs. Civil disobedience can do as much harm as all out war. But maybe we should be thankful for sacrifice and want less death, less suffering. By one death, many are often saved.

Maybe one party or another can triumph with grace.

I do have hope. I think it's worth flying a clean flag. I'm gonna get a tattoo sometime soon.

War and Shadows

2010-11-02T11:06:00.007-05:00

You know what? Today's election day. I suppose one might call it an off-election because the leader of the land won't be elected for another two years. I believe today are the most important elections however. These are the real days when the checks and balances become done or undone. These are the days when the people test their turf against the Executive, Legislative and Judicial branches, exactly as the Constitution of these United States intended.

Today is more than a memorial of the fallen--this is war out of the shadows, a day no one is fallen, but a battle waged. Freedom is more than the will of the people; even the people need to be checked and balanced. Today you and I work to maintain the balance against unlimited power by any citizen, by all citizens. You may be a President or a legislator or a judge. You might teach or preach or heal. One must wonder about the days when our freedoms were declared, a day when we became unique. Fall back to the day when the entire central America was purchased in a landmark deal called the Louisiana Purchase. They were men who needed to be united, but united under the idea that they or anyone else restricted themselves; were unwilling and disallowed to usurp any more than what their constitution gave them.

I encourage you not to vote to protect your entitlements or your ideas about the class structures or your thoughts about the rich. Don't begrudge the rich their riches or the poor their freedom or the religious their joy. Limit yourself to engage in their freedom today. By their freedom you can be most generous with resources and love. There are many who expanded our freedom by limiting their life for your good. I wrote about it and presented it to two men who entered into the battle long ago. It's oft said they went to war, but theirs was a healing adventure--they fixed the wounded, and tended the sores of freedom. Hopefully you get that today. It wasn't always that way. We've pursued types of freedom for others all around the world. Freedoms mean greater things for all men, greater advantages and greater opportunities. Your government is trying to tell you they need more and more from you. Today you get to demand that the American dream was never the big house. The American dream was inexhaustible freedom, but checked and balanced freedom, and a government was established that would model exactly that dream. You used to have your backs turned when military servicemen returned home. You were too busy worrying about issues other than what they meant to secure for you. These days many welcome our military service men and women home exuberantly, and I'm glad of that. But today let me share with you the poem written for two very special men, but now also shared with you to remind you what foundations are set, that today might happen.

It's called War and Shadows.

I’ve been in the shadows but never in the hole.

I’ve never faced my enemy

twixt a bullet and some steel.

I’ve never left the Green Latrine

With guns in hand,

From salty beach.

I’ve never hung off highway one,

Last chance my son,

You duck, you done.

Rare have any of us, bewitched by cause

strove through our enemies.

and the fated deaths those that sustained us.

I can retell the stories heard but could never relive

jungle rotted footsteps, atrophied wills.

And I could never duplicate the yellow in a man’s eyes
after scores of days amidst holes and shadows,

Behind the steel and fatigues, behind the pale of war

behind the fire, is a man used to death.

Yellow.

Freedom’s costs are those with discolored souls,

marked well through their eyes

Yellow.

Strength built in them are freedom’s price.

Liberty’s quest never ceases; her requirements fierce;

Freedom must be paid,

and by you she beckons,

Crimson.

The only shot above my head were my father’s honorable,

alacritous words, held strong deep in holes

bullets nigh,

“Medic!”

Crimson blood.

Man dies, under God’s eyes

and in saying so – you might,

should you need of our way of life.

For what I stand for,

as a soldier, as a parent, as a sibling and as a friend

I also live and die for.

Courageous and terrible choices formed the free path you and I tread today.

The rockets glared red above them… And I live free.

Trust enough not to rely on outcomes

Trust enough to allow a broken heart

Your spouse is freedom and you loved her well.

I’ve never felt the furrowed shadows

of a silent home,

a living grave,

a deep hole

a cloistered fox

But in the shadows the cracked freedom bell rung,

Each bullet being freedom’s clapper and the ring.

Freedom lives beyond my breath

For liberty welcomes all

And even cracked freedom bells always, if not faintly, ring.

I know you’re tired brother.

But take the tong and strike the bell, brother

And she will yell with us: “Welcome home!”

Rings the call,

my salute;

Welcome home, brother.

Welcome home.

Life and Weary

2010-10-22T10:42:00.000-05:00

Why are adventures
and journeys consistently
firm against gale winds?

Kansas Speedway and Back-street Hoodlums

2010-10-16T08:23:00.019-05:00

You can experience the racing life. One-hundred bucks and you've gained access to three laps at one-hundred and sixty miles per hour.

"Why 160?" asked my wife, "Why not 180?"

"Twenty miles per hour is the difference between completely out of control and only slightly out of control" said Sandy of the K-Love Christian radio sponsored Nationwide racing team number 81. Their car spreads the message "I am second" meaning God is first. We spent enough time with them to understand that the team believed it--the message rallied them.

Monique and I spent a weekend at Kansas speedway watching Nascar's best drivers and teams do what they do. Baker Curb Racing granted us garage/pit passes via my professor Dr. Shane Merritt, also part of Baker Curb racing. Baker Curb runs two cars, but we were there under the #27 racing team. The team had lost their primary sponsor, but the team's spirit seemed undiscouraged, including the significantly charming driver Drew Herring, hired to drive for only the third or fourth time this year. Team 27 were serious about racing but allowed us access to just about every inch of the trailer and garage, even finding time to allow us a fantastic barbecued meal. At race time, they're focused. We spent our time viewing the race from every angle we could. One-eighty sounds fast on T.V., but at the track, looks fast, super fast, inspiringly fast...intentionally fast.

Practice. The drivers love practice--the pits are wide open, no speed limits off race day. They turn off the garage area and nail it. The noise comes at one like the second coming, but feels wholly exuberant. I know they're working out there. Crew chiefs, mechanics and drivers talk talk talk. The drivers listen to the road and their cars and communicate back, the crew chiefs help the driver understand marks, and the mechanics plan their strategy for when the driver rolls into the garages.

The garage--a frenetic pile of full crews, sponsors and some fans, although not many. We felt privileged to be back there. There's order to the mess but there's also an invisible safety net, one where guys like Rusty Wallace can hang out with whomever, and enjoy a good story. I thanked him for designing the Newton Iowa track, a 7/8 mile short track that races like a massive speedway. After that, my brain was due for some de-icing.

I'm sure team members miss their families. A couple of the guys said so. A few guys are away for a long time. Sometimes the brightest days seem foggy when you miss someone. And yet the team can't wait to get their car to the track. When lulls approach they're comfortable, but they're pacers. We didn't meet anyone who was seriously wound up though. They all seem like fish in water. Pit crews checking tires and gear and talking to mechanics, drivers like Drew Herring stroll here and there, obviously nervous, but obviously calm--I perceived Herring's satisfaction to be driving one of Nascar's super cars. He had something to prove after crashes and mistakes gave the #27 car a bad day the previous week.

Tools clank and knock and ring. Monique and I hung out in the garages and watched them work. They bend the metal on the left side of the car inward, and also turn the tire somewhat inward. They do this to compensate for deep turns and powerful side force...actually improves aerodynamics. Awesome.

In the end, even the spectator feels intensity watching men and women drive at super-speeds. The average driver feels the intensity, they must. They lick up the track like fire and wind. Drew Herring, humble, grateful Drew Herring said "we look good, but we're all half crazy." Maybe he wanted to give me a good quote, but maybe he didn't think twice about telling me like it is.

Yet these guys--these race teams are class-at least the teams we met, they're friendly and sweet, and most of them taller than I am. Racing legend Bill Elliot is 6'3 for cryin' out loud. I didn't know. Some of these guys carry sacks of money to the bank I'd guess. But some we met don't tarry amongst the wiles of the super rich. In fact, most of who we met and saw were simply the best of the back-street bible-belt Johns itchin' for a race.

And race they did, every horse in the complex motor ran their legs off. They wear speed like old comfortable shoes that've been perfectly broken in. Except turn four; turn four tested the famous, the infamous and the non-famous alike. Some drivers came into the turn too hot and were tight on exit. But the cars, they're not simply safe, they're 3500 pounds of bars, belts, hans devices and body tight seats. They're not as nervous that the cars will crush them, they're nervous about the 169 mph blur of a three-wide run into turn-four. They're nervous about hitting their passing mark one-hundred yards ahead of turn one.

And the pit-crews, they're hard on themselves. Tenths of seconds matter and if a teammate lags or screws up, they're bent. Racers lose several spots on a two-second mistake. But they're fun to watch. The gas guys are massive, and they should be. They've got to move lightening fast into the fuel-tank of a hot race car with 95 pounds of flammable super-juice.

These teams and their cars are trend setters--you find some of their ideas on Buicks, Chevys, Fords and Dodges. But these guys aren't headed to a party on some gravel road. Trunk-space has been used up with more tubes and lines and bars. Of course the average Joe doesn't pay half a million dollars per car built. But these cars gleam like artwork and that's exactly what they are, fine-tuned, fantastically sophisticated sculptures.

Y'know, some guys are Ph.D's in something flashy, and some guys are less educated, but as knowledgeable; all of them know racing better than they know their own behinds, short of a few fart jokes from time to time. But they're just guys. They literally use the same bathrooms as everyone else. I almost had a pee with Joey Logano. I can't imagine what they feel like on the corner of Main and 4th street. I don't have the capacity to understand. They're probably a tick away from a neighborhood burnout, a flash away from another adrenalin rush, maybe. Maybe they get it all out on the track. Maybe they simply do their jobs. But in some ways you get the feeling that race day is like hitting fast forward on a video of a group of kids cruisin' the loop in shiny, detailed cars off highway something-or-other around streets rife with Americana.

I'm not sure how any given person describes experience. I suppose I'd say that some experience must be like arranged marriage, it is for better or for worse and ya live with it. Some experience wears one out like force and gravity and time. And some experiences indelibly invigorates new inspirations that live with a person forever. That's us. We weren't merely close to the action, we were part of the action. That's how we deal with that race-weekend and that's why we'll never forget.

Some day, I'm going to spend a hundred-bucks for three laps. I'm going to test the boundaries of this side of eternal life.

There were Gatorade stations all over the pits! Sweet Perk.

Well, ya have to start somewhere right? She's already in winner's circle!

That's A.J Almendinger--Monique's favorite driver! I think she just likes to say his name.

Autumn Rain

2010-10-10T14:01:00.001-05:00

Autumn Rain
I crave warm and beautiful
but the rain gets in the way.
One day I realized the rain creates the vivid
warmly and beautifully.
Listen.
Leaves crack from branches.

Discipline the Righteous: Hebrews 12.

2010-09-27T12:31:00.002-05:00

Why the night time God?

Remove darkness from home God.

Why the night time God?

Joy--an haiku by rje

2010-09-20T19:36:00.000-05:00

There's no greater joy
than when life requires a man
to tend to his wife.

Humans and Perfection

2010-09-17T07:57:00.007-05:00

The Great Adultery a poem by rick elgersma

We thought we'd control life

But discovered our willed life

Doesn't tell the entire story.

Our light isn't our own light.

The truth says,

At the moment of discovery

Human’s desperate attempt

To cover up in front of their beloved

Remains constant.

Life, randomly beautiful

Because desperate measures

Most often loiter in our dreams

A titillating environment untouched

By reality and yet provides

The dreadful fuel

To our very real temptations.

Is it cheating to remain quiet

About our fears and temptations?

Is it unfaithful to oblige modesty

In the wake of guilt?

It was one day long ago

That man hid from his beloved

The first great adultery

And they covered themselves

The moment of discovery

Desperately covered up

The unrequited irony

Uncovered to the whore

And modest before the beloved

Their faces pierce the darkness

Of our dreams and enticement

The want of good and evil

And controlling neither of them

Even the whisper of a thought

Is heard by the beloved

Because the beloved knows

Their heart unsown.

Guilt stares

Fury wails

Sadness burns

And only struggle and blood

Stitches and yet no blank, no space,

No emptiness and no void

Are filled without love unconditionally tender.

Even rivers dry up sometimes.

And fists pop the music grows loud

The fire grows and Lucifer

Satan screams into the microphone

Like fuel venom flows the flair of

Delicious pleasure teems onto the heads

Of the adulterer

I feel so sure of myself

But ask the dust to which

We must return and you’ll

Find the consequence of guilt

The great adultery

For in every grain of dust,

Adam.

Except for One drop of blood

The river flows

The abyss find the ground

The darkness lithely lighted…

It has always been that

At the moment of discovery

Human’s desperate attempt

To cover up in front of their beloved

Remains constant.

The curse of good and evil unanswered

By human minds except that we are saved

With the knowledge that God was witness

To the Great adultery.

A play we rewrite each day

A touch we re-enact

And God remains witness

And our eyes always look to the hills

Avoiding the dust that are my bones

Because the Hill's rivers, blood

That shed, rushes like mountain rivers,
Washes, fills our souls

Glory that was never housed nor hid

And the help we’re not desperate for

Because our souls have not been ours

For such a long time

The battle on my desert heart

and still but one I am forbid to fight.

My one punishment for the great adultery

Is that I, man am restricted from my own power

Someone else’s blood drips, flows onto my heart

And creates the soul that turns my desert into oasis.

Adultery—deception’s creative history

We thought we could control life

But life turned and discovered

It was not all it should control

Every word spoken

After the great adultery

Was an attempt to gain more from life

Or give it away.

Impossible dreams

Everything we dreamed

Became frenetically unrestrained

And it has always been that.

The truth says,

At the moment of discovery

Human’s desperate attempt

To cover up in front of their beloved

Remains constant.

The moment of discovery

Desperately covered up

The unrequited irony

Uncovered to the whore

And modest before the beloved

I yearn for the day when I might finally

Be uncovered before my love

And hidden to the whore.

I want to see the garden.

Riders

2010-09-13T15:23:00.006-05:00

She's a wind of a different sort, my wife is. I don't gear up and she's dragging me to the road, rubbing my face into the asphalt and selling my bike on Craigslist. She's no blowhard, no flash of hot air, no; she's wind. She calls Iowa a "natural selection state" meaning one doesn't wear gear, they're closer to the front of the line with those waiting for Grim Reaper's signature. Gear spelled looks like this "r-i-d-e-r", from another point of view looks like, "f-r-e-e-d-o-m" and from her side looks like "l-o-v-e."

She settles in unavoidable, and carries through me like Spring storms; forever Spring.

Wind dashed against my helmet, blurred the world, roads like bent trees. Relentless breath as unending as the motor beneath me, and the love behind me.

Four-hundred and two miles ridden yesterday. Gear does not make a motorcyclist, but it does help maintain them. Motorcyclists are lovers and fighters; the entire package. The wind is their joy and the other's lives their freedom. They're one giant cumulous cloud rising stratospherically, and only a friendly wave away. They've the power to yank another from their docker's and polo lives, turn the heavenly fan to "high" and send them out.

She's a different kind of wind, my wife is. She pats my helmeted head and says, "let's ride baby." My gloved hands pull the clutch, release the brake, and turn the throttle; the shifter receives a quick tap and we're off. The road rises up to meet us, the wide open envelopes us, and my loving wind, my graceful yet firm freedom, my blessed wife, pats me on the helmet and blows me down yonder.

Generosity

2010-09-09T08:07:00.001-05:00

   Thought for the day: So many people criticize, illegitimize or disparage another's church, life, career choices or habits to justify their own existence. They can't seem to enjoy, glean or understand another's church, life, career choices, habits or hurts. When a person does enjoy another, they're offered opportunity for generosity, showing respect for a friend, connecting each other's existence, and quite possibly growing from the experience and/or joyfully enhance or improve someone else's environment.

   Furthermore, when someone ails, there is not a single support method. Excellent and varied ways exist that unconditionally uphold and support another. So many believe they deserve to be seen, deserve reward for their action or generosity--Better are those ways you joyfully serve them without being seen, without asserting merit for an action--I assure you believer, your reward will be in Heaven.

   Better would be to more broadly define servanthood as the opportunity to take joy of someone in their own environment according to their own needs and to take joy in that experience. Find and then take advantage of the opportunity to be generous.

Seasonal Dress-Up

2010-09-07T10:31:00.002-05:00

Seasonal Dress-Up an haiku by richard elgersma
Summer's torrid dust
blows spryly in Autumn gale
Melted ice re-formed

2010-09-06T20:19:00.001-05:00

Best Intentions: an haiku by rick e.

Smokin' chrome and wind

motorcycles and sunlight
damned deliberate.

Land of the Unlikely

2010-09-03T10:11:00.003-05:00

I live in the land of the unlikely, always striving to live my own life, to accomplish my own accomplishments, create my own success and to establish my identity; and most efforts against profound odds. Uniquely and paradoxically, I become predictably unpredictable, meaning the more I work to establish my own unique identity, the more there is to understand about me.

I live the the land of the unlikely. My wife's family lives in the land of the unlikely. My dad-in-law chased his future wife from the Netherlands to the United States and well before even being awarded citizenship, he was drafted into the American Army to go to Viet Nam, fought and lived, and was again denied citizenship. It was eventually awarded. My mom-in-law's family moved to the U.S., some moved back to the Netherlands, than moved back to the U.S. again. All suffered searing anxiety and stress. I'm not sure that my wife's Grandma ever truly found her identity in the U.S.

My in-laws have spent a total of about 32 years in Europe, many as American citizens, meaning they went "home" as foreigners. We live in the land of the unlikely.

It seems there's so much that separates us, drives us apart. It seems we get hung up on our presuppositions or ideas about any one thing, and many deem petty.

Even Oma K. has lived uniquely. And yet when we were there, on one of her surfaces set a silver teapot, the kind of teapot that graces many Dutch homes. I felt connected and familiar. Familiar things, familiar foods and familiar activities connect many who live unlikely days.

Christ himself lived uniquely. Despite his unique life, and despite my unlikely days, his people were never meant to separate one from another. We're called a "body" and the body, no matter what might seem to separate one part from another, the body continues in support of the rest of the body. Each unique body part, full of their own needs, their own ways and their own identities, exists in tandem, in connection to the rest.

I, like many of you, live an unlikely life living in unlikely days, always striving to live uniquely, to accomplish my own accomplishments, and to establish my identity.

But I am not an island; I am familiar. And I am...we are connected.

Human Development

2010-08-27T14:31:00.009-05:00

Human Development
an haiku by richard elgersma

I entered the den
where lion and tiger meet
There I learned to fly.

Prayers and Doubt

2010-08-16T07:49:00.000-05:00

Can't remember when I wasn't able to write, but that's been me since Christmas. Every reason I had to write from motorcycle trips to family and friend turmoil to my obvious calling into Counseling were also the reasons I couldn't write. I've resolved to write again. I might move further into poetry. I did a reading a few weeks ago and one of the sponsoring writers came up to me after reading and said, "Your stuff is upper tier, world class even." I don't yet know what to do with that information, and I'm not sure what I'll write. But I know what God's put in me to do, writing being one of them.

I'll write when I can really, but I hope to twice a week. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I'll write; about what I've no idea. Maybe I'll write what I've learned from family and friends. We had a horrible storm here not long ago, you would've enjoyed hearing how fast friends dropped what they were doing to help us and others.

I guess we all write about faith in one sort or another. God reveals faith to us in greater and maturing stages throughout life, but we all had all the faith we needed the day we were born. The lot of us, our stories, enlightens others and ourselves to our faith enduring and growing.

Mine's confused me and strengthened me since Christmas. I took my first motorcycle trip through the back roads of rolling Iowa. "May the hills rise up to meet you...", they did. But God parted clouds; it was a day before the trip and it looked like rain. I prayed for no rain, but also told God, "If you make it rain, that'll be ok too," thereby letting God off the "hook." More importantly, I realized that doubt laces most prayers--"but if you don't, it's ok." God parted clouds, not because he felt guilty--but I believe he watched us ride, and while there were other reasons God didn't make it rain where we were, I think he intended to give us dry ground, and he intended to teach me about prayer laced with doubt--a loving "what not to do" lesson from God.

Maybe I'll write about the news or politics or the American people. We'll see I suppose.

I'll figure it out on Thursday, but bet it'll be about some way God prodded me to see him; happens all the time. There are reasons God took me away from here for awhile--those secrets will be told eventually.

Either way it's good to see you today God.

REST

2010-08-16T07:20:00.004-05:00

Even now rest wearies me.

A peculiar thing it is to wake.
A new day springs.

I’ve no tools by which
I might perceive my own fate
As if sailing on deep waters,
I cannot see the plank
from which they will push me.

It is a peculiar thing to wake up;
The dawn neither waits nor attempts
To wake one or anyone,
fully ignorant to its own peculiarities.

There is sound in silence
The world turns and atoms
burst from the tension of gravity
And wind and sunlight.

Voices in violent stillness.
If my heart were rested
I'd reflect
On silent noise.

Soul, here or somewhere
On this side of eternal life
hearing,
feeling nothing
A cave siphoned from here
for a time.

Time exists not
where eternity is.
I know God
and I am called.

Heart rests,
weightless,
entered eternally,
where He says
"I Am."

Time confuses me,
as it passes by me,
and possibly with me.

Time passes, never rests,
And nor do I.
Rest wearies me, time exhausts me.

Each of her breaths is not the tick-tock clock,
but the promise of life;
and my heart knows that breath
because God gives good gifts
And that breath is now fueled
joyfully by her soul.

To wake up and love me,
mighty inhales, simple,
delights my soul
Not as a passing time
Nor the pause of it;

But because I am eternally grateful.
Soft, warm breath delights me
and I am rejuvenated
because God holds her too.

And so rest in time is not rest.
We’re mass.
Gravity and oxygen and atoms
and orbits demand movement,
demand time;
faithful movement,
and suited to it
expectations.

I must rest…we must rest.
I love eternity;
held.
Rest.

And I love that she is with me.

Where did the Magi Originate?

2009-12-20T16:06:00.004-06:00

Matthew 2:1-2:

Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, saying, "Where is he who has been born king of the jews? For we have seen his star in the East, and we have come to worship him."

I'm positive that most of us have never mapped the travels of the Magi--covered the Wise Men from the east. We'll start simply--one can deduce that being from the East, they might have travelled West! "They saw his star in the east" doesn't necessarily mean the star was east of them. If so, they might have travelled to India. The word "east" in Greek also means, "The rising," meaning the wise men would have said, "We saw a star at its rising." In the second revised edition of Werner Keller's book The Bible as History, the following is stated:

"We have seen his star in the east" (Matt. 2:2), said the Wise Men (KJV). The translation is however incorrect, for the words 'in the east' are in the original en te anatole—the Greek singular-- but elsewhere 'the east' is represented by anatolai—the Greek plural.

The singular form anatole has, it is maintained, quite a special astronomical significance, in that it implies the observation of the early rising of the star, the so-called heliacal rising. The translators of the King James Version could not have known this.

When en te anatole is translated properly, Matt. 2:2 reads as follows: "We have seen his star appear in the first rays of dawn" (pp. 328-329).

So where did the wise men come from? The book, "Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes" written by Kenneth E. Bailey says this:

Where is East? The answer to that question depends on where the writer lives. If an American is visiting friends from New Jersey and tells them that he or she came from "the West," the hosts might infer that the guest is from Pittsburgh. If someone in the United States Navy is sent to serve in the "Western Pacific" he or she may be stationed in Pacific waters but a a British ship one hundred yards away is in the "Eastern Pacific."

So it is that Christians living in Rome might say something different than one living in a different region, such as in "The Holy Land". Those from that region would refer to someone across the Jordan River. Bailey says that this designation survives even today (p. 52). Matthew, Luke and others would more naturally refer that those from the "East" are those from the east side of the Jordan River, in the Jordanian deserts which connect to the Arabian Deserts. Furthermore, the wise men arrived with Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh. These unique gifts are and were well known to be harvested from trees that only grow in southern Arabia.

The earliest known written text outside the gospels about this particular event was written by Justin Martyr--A.D. 160. Justin was a Palestinian Christian living in Caesarea. He wrote about a conversation with a Jew named Trypho (p.53) who told Justin, "The wise men from Arabia came to Bethlehem and worshiped the child and offered to him gifts, gold and frankincense and myrrh." Martyr doesn't labor the point or argue against Trypho, but instead states several times throughout the commentary that the wise men hailed from Arabia. The location is supported by writings by Tertullian and Clement of Rome. But these facts alone don't prove much...

Isaiah 60:1-5

Arise, shine for your light has come, and hte glory of the Lord has risen upon you. For behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and the thick darkness the peoples, but the Lord will arise upon you and his glory will be seen upon you. And nations shall come to your light, and the kings to the brightness of your rising. The wealth of nations shall come to you. A multitude of camels shall cover you, the young camels of Midian and Ephah; all those from Sheba shall come. They shall bring gold and frankincense, and shall proclaim the praise of the Lord.

Kenneth Bailey writes:

Midian and Ephah are tribal lands in northern Arabia, and Sheba was the name for the part of southern Arabia from which the Queen of Sheba was the name for the part of southern Arabia from which the Queen came with "much gold" (I Kings 10:2). Frankincense is unique to southern Arabia. In verse 7 of Isaiah continues as he reports "all the flocks of Kedar shall be gathered to you." Shepherds were also involved. To the child came Arab wise men from the desert on camels bringing gold and frankincense. And Shepherds visited the child, not the city...

I guess I'm not sure that these details matter in our celebrations. They probably don't. But I want you Christians to know some details so that Christians have a true story to stand on.

Bailey also claims that the wise men were almost always wealthy men (especially in Arabia), and they would not traditionally have travelled in two or three's. In the time of Daniel the whole of the Chaldean wise men were summoned to interpret dreams, and to perform other tasks appointed to them. Rich wise men were not singularly curious and they were interested in power and interested in prophesy and interested in knowledge and interested in astrology. It would have been more typical that many men travelled together, because the prophesy was widely known. Matthew and Luke (and Pharisees and Sadducees) would have known their reputation well. Arabian wise men would have also travelled with animals and servants...rich men travelled with servants to perform any manner of tasks including protection, negotiations and scouting (p. 53-54). And their gifts would not have only been "tokens" of wealth in worship--they would've flowered a prophesied king with these gifts. They had reputations to uphold afterall.

Either way, I suppose this knowledge won't change your celebrations. But I encourage all of you to shower each other with excellent gifts, with great feasts, with deep love, and with a majestic sense of worship for a King who saved you.

Jesus Christ and the Racing Donkey

2009-12-11T11:08:00.014-06:00

I've told the story before. Two Christmases in a row. I can't repeat the same angles covered the last two years. But my needs are the same. I fervently want Christians to celebrate Christ's birth. I want you to know the story correctly, because by knowledge you'll be able to enjoy getting to know the middle eastern people, Mary and Joseph, and Jesus Christ himself.

I want you to say, "Merry Christmas!" and I don't want you to tolerate "Happy Holidays." There are more holidays in February, including one goofy little day called "Valentine's Day." You and I don't call it a holiday do we? We call it what it is.

Christmas--much more than a holiday for you, but you're not even sure why. You want...

You want the courage to celebrate Christ's birth...Christmas.

Or you want to be like everyone else. You want to give gifts and fill stockings, coo at magnificent chocolate and colorful blinking lights. And fireplaces will be stoked, even in Florida and California. Even the warm states whimsically sing about their desires for white Christmases, ham and hot chocolate. And at the right moment, you just might recite nostalgic poems about quiet mouses, milk and cookies and fake fat guys with greased up coats so they can slide down your chimney.

You want to believe a cute story about a Benevolent Caesar, a mean-hearted Herod, and a calm but hurried Joseph and Mary. So, I've thought of a way to tell you what I want you to see. You get to choose which story you want to celebrate though. You can take the following story and run with Christmas the way its always been done...go ahead, it'll be warm and fuzzy and cute. Or you can read the scriptures and know the truth.

Here it is, a third way, a third year. Next year, I'll do it again.

So Caesar says, "Be Counted! But you, Jews, must go to the place of your origin!"

Caesar Agustus comes up with an idea to count people in his kingdom--a census, in part to help him figure out how many taxes can be collected. So, everyone gets packed and ready to go.

A pregnant Mary and an adoptive father Joseph turned toward each other, each with worried expressions. Joseph devises a plan. They must leave, and they must leave tonight!

So in less than an hour Mary begins packing and Joseph sets off to make a deal for the fastest donkey in the Nazareth area. He finds his brother there. Phillip his brother also needs a racing donkey. They both find the perfect racing donkey for them...and it happens to be the exact same racing donkey! They fight over this one particular donkey--one a little taller, stronger and sleeker than all the rest of the donkeys. It almost comes to fists, but the owner of the racing donkey facility broke it up and said, "Look, this really is about money." So Joseph was a bit more successful with his carpenter business and had a few more sestarius and an extra gold coin, and so his brother was out of luck.

So Joseph hopped on the donkey and made him run home...kind of a warm up for the journey the donkey would carry them through.

They got home and Mary, who'd solicited some help from another sister, Babette. Babette had packed already, but her husband was slow, and so she came to help her pregnant sister.

Now Joseph was kind of competitive and he wanted to be the first of his family to be counted in the town of their ancestors, Bethlehem. For some reason it was important--he needed the leverage I suppose.

So he kind of rudely said, "Mary, we gotta go!" He got the donkey ready very quickly, then, went into the house to retrieve something.

So, since Joseph was not there to help Mary get onto the donkey, Babette cupped her hand so Mary could use her as a step to get onto the donkey. Mary had mentioned that this racing donkey was quite tall.

But, what the ladies didn't know is that Joseph in his spare time had built a step stool. When he got the racing donkey home he thought, "My new step-stool would work perfectly for Mary!" He came running out of the house with the step-stool just as Mary was putting her foot into her sister's cupped hands.

"No no Babette! You're playing with our babies life doing that!" Joseph said. "What if she falls?" And to add some weight he added, "Our baby is God's son!"

"Oh Joseph, I'm a strong working woman, i've done this before, you know that...and stop being so melodramatic ya big goofball."

"Stop it Babette, I have made this step-stool, don't you see?"

Mary smiled at the two competitors, and put the step stool in front of the obedient donkey, stepped up and sat on the donkey.

"Joseph honey, we have to go."

"Right," replied Joseph, somewhat curtly.

And so they set off into the desert. Joseph, being in good shape was still no match for the racing donkey. Mary was a bit of a novice, but this racing donkey had been trained well. So when Mary noticed that Joseph was three or four hundred paces behind, Mary said, "Slowwww donkey," and the donkey slowed to an easier gait. Joseph caught up breathing hard. He was kind of mad, and he wacked the racing donkey on the butt, and it lurched forward, but then stopped walking altogether.

"Slow down donkey! What the world man?" Joseph was exasperated.

This was not the talking donkey told from the scrolls, so the donkey said and did nothing. Joseph secretly wished the donkey could apologize.

Ten minutes passed. Joseph sucked down half of one of the canteens before he was ready to go. He gave the command and they all trotted off. They should still be there first. They only had a few kilometers to go.

"Oh no Joseph!" said Mary. She looked terrified. "I just had a terrible contraction."

"We better hurry."

So they picked up the pace, but Mary's contractions were already three minutes apart.

So they ran. The racing donkey was ahead of a running Joseph. Adrenaline streamed through Joseph, who was also very strong, and he ran faster than he'd ever run. The racing donkey seemed relaxed and was in good shape, and of course was a ways ahead of Joseph, but not too far.

All of a sudden...

"Oh no," said Mary to no one really, Jospeh was too far behind. Her water had broken all over the racing donkey.

"Gross," said Mary. "Giddyup racing donkey!"

So the racing donkey took off like a flash. Poor Joseph could only yell, "Wait wait!" but to his credit, he had something extra in his legs and really picked up the pace.

The donkey covered 7 kilometers like a flash of lightning. Mary was really happy about the racing donkey. So, they got to town and Mary started to talk to people on the edge of town saying, "My water broke all over this racing donkey here and I'm going to have a baby soon, and this baby is going to be God and so we need a room!"

But she was a woman, and she was talking crazy. A few people took pity on her crazy plight, and put a couple of coins in the water cup hanging from the racing donkey.

Meanwhile Joseph made it to town and fell over at the gate, dirt cased his lips. The wind had come up a bit and it was dusty out there. The racing donkey took off with the canteens and so what was he going to do?"

He found Mary and the racing donkey. Mary was crying.

"Mary, what happened, you took off like a shot lady!"

"My water broke," she said, tired. "And I hate this town, no one will give us a hotel room."

"Oh crap."

So Joseph, being a man, had more credibility, and began asking hotel owners for room...it was a patriarchal system, what were they gonna do?

"We are in the line of David!" yelled Joseph. "We are in the family of the King, we need a room!"

"I'm sorry," everyone said, "The Sprintolicum Camel Cup is tomorrow, and all the best camel racers are here. The town's just full of fans."

Mary tried to dry off the racing donkey, but the contractions were terribly painful, so she said down and tried to breath slowly. Her doctor Amin Pater Lamaas gave her some ideas about breathing.

One guy from a small inn far away from the racing grounds finally gave them something positive.

"I own an old cave," he said. "You can have that. There's animals though."

"No problem man," said Joseph, relieved. "I'm around animals all the time! We just need to give birth to God tonight and we got a later start than I wanted, y'know how that goes."

"I do, I'll see what the town doctor is doing, and he can maybe help you!"

"Thanks."

"Oh, one thing," stammered the inn owner, "These Bethlehem December nights get kind of cold, take these blankets."

"You're very kind," said Joseph. Mary simply whimpered.

So Joseph and Mary, and a goopy racing donkey headed to the cave. But Mary knew they couldn't wait for the doctor. Jesus wanted to be born faster than the doctor could get here. So Mary leaned back against a hay bale and said,

"He's comin'!"

Joseph reached out his hands and caught their son, whom they named Jesus, as he popped out of the womb. God births faster than most babies. Added to that, the boy, Jesus, never cried, not even once. And the animals were silent. Joseph and Mary were both amazed.

Meanwhile thousands, maybe thousands upon thousands of singing angels appeared in the barley fields where sheep slept and simple shepherds watched over them, while playing an competitive marble game. These angels smiled deeply. Their teeth flashed like lightening. The angels clamored about joyfully, warming up their voices while taking their places on the celestial choir stands. But the several weak and meek shepherds hated music, and the light from the Angels was very bright, which also irritated them. Added to that, they had never seen Angels before, so they dropped down to the ground in fear. All-the-while, the Angels were sweetly singing o're the plain. One big angel who called himself Michael (the shepherds, who weren't very learned, still thought to themselves that they remembered hearing about an Angel Michael from the readings in the Synagogue, and wondered if this Michael was the same Angel) tapped the shoulders of the Shepherds and said, "Don't be afraid, we're just a choir man!" The head shepherd (called the "Master Shepherd) looked up bravely at the angels.

"Go and find Jesus in the cave, he is God," said Michael the Angel. "These Bethlehemites didn't even care that this family was in the line of a very famous king, king David. And they couldn't care less that Mary's water had broken all over the racing donkey. So, he's in a cave nearby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. Shouldn't take long."

Meanwhile, all the animals in the cave, Mary, Joseph and Jesus, had grown golden halos over their heads. Mary and Joseph and Jesus's halos were more pronounced though, and you could see lots of colors in theirs.

Night moved toward early dawn. Mary, Joseph and Jesus, the recently arrived shepherds, and three wise men, whose visit surprised and confused the small family, all bowed before the manger; and swayed side to side while the angel's concert continued over them.

But it wouldn't last long...danger by the name of King Herod and his mean Roman Soldiers would upset this peaceful little scene very soon, and Mary, Joseph, a desperately young Jesus, who shouldn't be traveling yet, would have to take up their gear and their racing donkey and flee to Egypt.

to be continued...

The End

Or you could believe what I read in Revelation 12 and in Luke 2. The angels were an army...a host of them there to fiercely guard the birth of Jesus Christ. Scripture also says in Luke 2, "And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should give birth." They got there in plenty time...days ahead even, and probably not in December.

You could also understand that the word "Inn" does not mean "Hotel." If you must know, it means "House." What you should know is that the stable was attached to the house and probably in an open room next to the "living" room, so that heat could be transferred throughout the building. Simple village homes in Palestine, and in homes in that general region often owned animals but did not have separate storehouses for them, but instead kept them in an adjacent room. Homeowners brought their animals in to be cleaned, and to prevent the theft of their animals.

Homes often had a room for guests, technically called a "prophet's chamber" (see 1 kings 17:19). The main room was a family room where they cooked and lived.

You should believe that they, being in the town of king David, in the Lineage of King David, wouldn't be treated badly. The Middle Eastern culture took (and take) their lineages very seriously. Furthermore, this was the first census where Jews were affected and so Mary and Joseph were not alone. They were there with family most likely. Furthermore, Elizabeth lived only a short distance away, and if it really came down to it, they could go there. Mary was there for three months for cryin-out-loud. They were there for days, and another guest of a friend or family member was in the prophet's quarters, and so they slept in the living room, next to the stable. And, there was no bed for a baby in the living room, so they used a manger from the stable. Maybe they had to make some room in the stable area? It was most likely very clean.

Either way, they were there for days--no rush--no racing donkey on whom Mary's innards spilled. In fact, there was no mention of a donkey in the story at all.

And the angels were a fierce and loyal bunch...and ready for anything. And the shepherds were sick with fright and you would be too. But the angels were there to pronounce birth of the one who would bring peace to the world, and the Shepherds had needn't not be afraid--all that is true.

Read Luke 2, Matthew 1 and Revelation 12. Then celebrate. Celebrate confidently, and celebrate with a mighty force.

God Bless.

The Library

2009-12-01T13:54:00.016-06:00

Lapidary blue skies consumed the east and the west.
Skies of multiple universes,
mine being an eighty by one-hundred twenty-two plot.

A man walks by, reluctant steps
minding the trees
and the breeze
wishing ne'er the exercise.

I should expect my own
Beleaguered reluctance Would reach my soul
Only some years, and maybe even minutes
behind his.

I remember days when rooms full of luggers,
sheltered midwestern men,
hunkered round' and mocked.

As burlesque players might,
fomented foreign accents, New Englander's mostly,
because theirs was about the only accent
reasonably slander worthy,
those labored with hazy endings and round vowels.

"You won't get faa with that caa paaked in the yaad..."

No harm intended beyond guileless luggers, a table and some beer.

While others in malted colonial street bars of New England
hoodwinked stereotypically "those hicks" somewhere
on the crusted shoulders of I-Oh-Way.

No harm intended beyond ingenuous aquiline eyes,
some beer and a table.

Conversations somehow gave them ownership,
membership of some place,
consistent and yet continuously improvised,
There-in lay the bedrock of invention.

Simply, men closer to their independence
than most.

And Schlitz was the norm,
and a glass-full of bud wasn't more or less filling,
and that was fine.

My need for independence festers
and pours out of me like a wound.
I simply long to sit in still life
and carve shapes into the clouds.

I long for the wisp of a benevolent approver.

I found and tended the Geographer's Library,
and discovered the Cartographer's secret,

That all roads eventually lead to the want of home.

One can tell by some dark smiles
what is of joy and thankfulness
that only the honesty of experience
can bare.

And so it is with multiple universes
That some I have seen
leaves so much past.

It strikes me to think of
who deserve the nurtured
cigarette twixt the first two fingers,

Even the dying plant of summer
and the dry leaves of autumn
borne and died most for those who
dare to listen to them fall.

Lapidary skies
and dust like helium rise
in my wake
like a crematory and a dead man's bowl.

I found life in the Geographer's Library.
I flew in lapidary skies,
more free and joyful than the reigns
of most men,
and contrails of spit, sweat and tears,
and tongue wagging happiness.

"I am trailed by so much history,"
said the geographer.
Far unlike the pendulum
and greater than the scale
The past far outweighs the present,
and only one second should be my future.

And there it is, my cartographer's rendering,
heavy.
Hindsight is not twenty-twenty,
but the map doesn't lie.

Withal I stand
on nothing more than now,
on feeble legs
in my plot,
in my feathered present,

And I breath free air
and raise my hands,
flaming cigarette twixt
my deserving fingers
and I dance,

Somewhere within the Geographer's Library.

Let Freedom Ring

2009-11-23T11:28:00.041-06:00

Veterans Day came and went. I remembered, certainly.

But I got to thinking...

I'm sick of the rhetoric. "Violence never solves anything," "Peace Matters," "Don't punish terrorists, kill Guantanamo." There are more and I'm sick of it.

I don't like war, I don't. "Fighting sucks," is my understatement for the year. I can't comprehend a fight behind the mask of an M-14. I've been scared before but...

I'm for freedom. I want you to have an opinion. I want you to say you like this idea, and you don't like that idea. I want you to believe what you believe, and I want you to like football and baseball, and I want you to not like sports at all. I want you to worship, or I want you to choose to stay in bed.

I want for you the freedom to support or criticize.

My classmate Anne, in high school long ago, wrote a prize winning speech called "Let Freedom Ring!" The speech contained the mantra over and over again: "Let Freedom Ring," she said.

I believe that's who we are.

Leaders have motives and motifs behind their decisions... philosophies behind reasons. Some reasons may be access to oil, to improve trade routes, to protect the American people from terrorism. But in the end, the American people and their leaders wanted and want freedom for people.

American history -- stories of wars between our own people, stories of how America was formed, massive numbers of American-Indian lives cruelly lost and changed--ugly stories.

But... I can't help but believe that developing vast new cultures that have never been seen before, such as The United States of America beginning in the 16 and 1700's, take unimaginable sacrifice. The sacrifice becomes even more amazing when we understand that people like you and I have been historically willing to face the sacrifice head on. They've been willing to endure ridicule and criticism by so many of us, to protect freedom for those same people. Rough stories can't change what good and strong people really wanted-- despite an imperfect history, we and our leaders desire and desired freedom. And given enough time, we can now clearly see who of us desire freedom and those who mask oppression with pretty little bows--legislation that serves only to make us more dependent, to deplete our intuition, to internally defeat our own sense of freedom... and deplete the free nation's morale. However, I believe I'm seeing a people beginning to stand against oppression again...against our own form of the Berlin Wall. Many of us are speaking out. You and I have witnessed our nation inspired by freedom and disgusted by oppression, and we should want that now--in some ways we should want that again.

My dad, and my dad-in-law both served in war and, while I could not comprehend their experience, I can boast in my pride of them and those who served with them. I am grateful that they were willing to allow my freedom, the idea of freedom, and the freedom of others to land squarely on their shoulders. They are heroes. I'm thankful every day. I wake up every day and breath free air because of them and people like them. I don't want them to regret their fight, because in success, and despite failure, they fought for something--their leaders and commanders wanted freedom for a people, whether they be Americans or South Vietnamese. In my opinion, my dad and my dad-in-law should be proud of their torrid days in dreaded jungles. They came home to a silent, ridiculing nation, but they stood...they saluted their nation. Only recently have some people, some journalists, regaled historical proofs that reveal their heroism, their purpose, and the mantra of leaders who desired nothing less than free people.

Even you and I have ulterior motives behind our decisions. What I do might seem unwise to you, but be patient and I might surprise you. That's what men did with freedom in the late 1700's. Despite a few ulterior motives, so many of us have strived for the pursuit that freedom allows. Leaders and their advisors decide by their presuppositions, in part for their legend, for their legacy...but also in part for the freedom of the people, by the people and for the people. On the flip-side, when leaders seem to derail American's freedom, we are constitutionally obligated to contest them, to push them back, and to eventually push them away by our vote. Demand your freedom...let freedom ring, people! Because the true worth of our free America reveals a people--Americans rising to every occasion with millions of their own dollars, and pounds of muscle behind every hammer within our borders, but also in Haiti, the Dominican, in Africa, in Asia and in most places of the world. Americans desire the best, under God, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all.

Despite some strategic mistakes, despite McNamaras and others who defined kinks in the American armor, we wanted freedom for Europe in the World Wars, we wanted a vision for Korea, wanted freedom for the Vietnamese, want freedom for Iraq and the Middle East, we want to protect the Israeli nation and we want to give a new reality to Afghanistan.

I know what you're saying--I've heard it a million times--"Every nation has their own culture, and we can't hope to make them be 'Little Americas.'" But look closely...we don't want them to be us...we want them to be them, but a 'free' them. They'll suffer the change as we did, but freedom works.

History shows that when one nation attacks another, the conquering nation intends to have the conquered nation for themselves. However, the examples I gave prove America to be different. American people want freedom for nations. We want a freedom for nations in which they can exist on their own. In fact, America's actions have inspired some form of elections in several nations in the last few years. Our leader's words inspired an oppressive Berlin Wall to fall.

We can tell some horrific stories...but Anne said, "Let Freedom Ring" and Americans have expected and have gotten nothing less--until now, I believe.

I believe the mantra is changing. Our leaders seem to dampen our freedom bell that was, until recently, heard around the world.

I know what freedom feels like--there's no explanation--take the joy of a Budweiser on a hot day and times that feeling by millions and there-in lies a free life.

Freedom exists for a precious few nations, and we should want freedom for them. We should expect nothing less.

Hiatus and more of Webster's Conundrums

2009-11-17T15:53:00.009-06:00

They call it an "Hiatus." I guess I've been on one. I suppose writers suffer blocks of one sort or another.

I was denied a proof-writing job and that might've contributed. We all think we're better writers than we are, and we all think we're skilled enough not to be rejected, right? Most of us will tell each other to get used to disappointment until it happens and then we can't figure out what advice works best. I can tell you that proof-writing gigs don't come easy. I had to know Chicago proofing style, and I didn't. Amateurs like myself should break the books out as often as we do the pen. Maybe I'm a better writer than proofer. I'm learning. There's a lot to know. Someone out of the Windy City had a greater feel for punctuation than I do apparently.

I don't care about that much anymore though. I've got more on the plate. I've got financial situations and friends who are sick. Of course there's the brooding twelve pound turkey who's death might serve my thankful family well next week. And well, I took time out to learn how to make biscuits from scratch. I suppose there's a Chicago Style biscuit to go with the Chicago Style proofing fascist, but mine tasted good anyway. Soft, warm butter and some huckleberry honey took me to biscuit heaven and I'm originally from Southern California. Chicago. Pffffft.

I worked one night at my part time job, and I asked a man, "How's it goin'?" He replied, "It's a day!"

I don't know what that means. What does a day have to do with how one is? He deflected, I get that. He was probably just fine, but that's more than he wanted me to know. Someone else replied with equal mystery, "All in a day!"

I don't get it. All in what day? Because my Sunday is different than my Monday.

Someone else answered my question about their day saying, "Jiggy." Huh? I've also heard, "Fair to partly cloudy," an equally deflective answer, understanding the fact that weather people can't give a clear answer about weather.

I said, "Hello," to someone who replied with two hello's back to me, "Hello Hello," he said as if there were two of me. I've heard, "Not bad, not bad," as if there are two of them. I've heard greetings go like, "Hey hey!" Someone answered my question about their well-being with a "fine, fine." Does repetition serve to superfluously convince me about your status?

I don't know how to answer the question except for, "I've been on Hiatus." Except that's not entirely true. I'm fully engaged.

Webster says "hiatus" means,

A gap or interruption in space, time, or continuity; a break.

Am I allowed to be sick of writing for a bit?

All in a day, I suppose. All in a day the Lord has made. Might as well be glad and rejoice in it.

So I'm happy to be writing again.

I was on hiatus because I didn't know how to answer the question. "It's a day," what else can I say?

Fair Warrior

2009-10-23T13:32:00.007-05:00

On Wednesday October 21st, 2009 I couldn't imagine one person smiling in Praise all day long. On Thursday October 22, 2009 I didn't have to.

His skin, fair and frail... sensitive even. I was with friends at the International House of Prayer in Kansas City and he was there. His arms were thin; his watch crawled a third of the way up his arm.

His skin was so fair as to be red from his forearm down the sides to his palm and through the pinky finger. He wore bright white fingernails. I'd seen as much on an infant. I almost felt that he had only a short time ago been born.

He smiled as if he were woven into the basket of the arms of God, the womb of the groom. I guess I don't know his life story, I don't know if he's experienced anything. I imagine a man with arms stretched out that far has.

He was certainly not muscular; medium build I suppose...a small medium. He wasn't fat, not lanky...not anything except fair. His orange colored short sleeve shirt ran past his shoulder above his arms, arms marked not by muscle, but by sensitive skin. A weight lifter's shirt holds tight to the arm, fixed and sure.

I'd take him easy. Seriously, I'd break his arm if we arm wrestled. You see, I have strong arms, chiseled even. I can flex my pecs with the best of them. Lose a few more pounds and I've got a wash-board stomach.

Yet his arm lifted toward God. His hands gently swayed back and forth as if God held them and danced--as if God enjoyed the worship with his son. In fact I can say for sure God did.

His hands rose high on the pivot point called a shoulder for the better part of four hours--held in praise, held high like Moses himself holding Israel's enemies back. I don't know what enemy languished by this young man's prayers and praise.

On Wednesday I had a lifter's view of strength. On Thursday I knew much more strength's definition from God's dictionary. On Thursday I realized I understood little of might and muscled praise, excpt by the example of a fair skinned warrior in a loose orange shirt.

My shoulders hurt not far after five minutes.

He could take me to be sure. He broke me after five to seven minutes, beat me by four hours. I'd guess there's no way he'd harm me much though beyond his gentle and trustworthy example ... a slight but kind rebuke from a slight-bodied boy who's wash-board was found closer to the heart. He'd never hurt me. We're brothers, the bride of Christ. By his fruit, by his faith I knew him and his strength. I saw the ancient faith of Abraham in his mighty heart. I saw one who knew in whom he believed, like Timothy. I eavesdropped on one who would lead hosts of Christians, like Paul, simply by raising his hands for four or more blessed hours.

All that and he didn't look like much. Last in the gym, but by God, first where it really mattered.

I'll find him in heaven one day. Like with Paul and Peter, Elijah and others, I'll probably have a conversation with him, and I'll take notes.

Notes taken by a muscled follower from an interview with a fair warrior.

A Colorful Mish-Mash called Legacy

2009-10-18T09:51:00.001-05:00

"Oh, it's my coloring book! My Oma gave that to me," said Monique.

She wore a nostalgic smile on her face if ever there were a nostalgic smile. I looked at the colored pictures and touched the color as if it was asking.

"I love it," I said. "It's hard to explain, but all those lines and shapes were done by such a different you, and still the same you."

"Feeling introspective today love?" she asked.

"I suppose, but you're standing here right now and I'm looking at something a you I never knew did. I have fun with the paradox."

"You're definitely feeling introspective," she said. "But it is fun to remember."

Such a long time ago, but her five year old artistry was still there. A mish-mash of blue and red, yellow and green mushrooms, fairies, princesses, puppies and flowers.

Dust the book for finger prints. Maybe I'd hope to see five year old mirror image prints of a 30-something year-old woman. I wouldn't hope for it, but maybe Oma's ("Grandma" in Dutch) prints are there too.

My mom found some old letters that she'd written to a friend when she was twelve. Her children gathered one weekend and we found the letters on the table. We enjoyed this hilarious form of history. Mom is forever branded the gossip queen! But her children touched the ink, her ink, and read words of their mother.

I've read letters from my Grandmother, written many years ago. She's long gone, nary a ripple of her breath left, except the letters. I've touched them, grazed over her finger prints. We all know the scratches of pen to paper and I can hear that too...the scratches are left in the wind and the ink maintains it's dark sky blue, the blue you see a moment after dusk when the sun's almost ready to turn her lamp off.

I remember the smell of Grandma's house. The letters used to smell like her house. I guess maybe it's like wine though...there really is no apricots in Chardonnay, but you can smell them anyway. I suppose they smell like my mom's house now.

I enjoy the life God's chosen for me, I do. I can't say that's always been, but...it is now. I'm writing today, it's me, it is. I wonder though, are some of my letters out there? You'll not find any fingerprints here. I guarantee your computer doesn't smell like my house.

Who delights over an uncle? I mean I love my Nephews and Nieces and I know they love me. I have so much fun with them, and anyone who knows me knows that I'd do anything for them; I'd hang upside down on the ceiling if it would make them happy. I'm elated by them, charmed by them. I'm gratified by their happiness. But let's be real; post funeral they won't find my letters and graze their fingers over the ink. They won't read my favorite kid book "A Day At The Zoo" and listen for my six-year old voice memorizing every word. They won't. I believe I'll simply go away.

I don't feel sorry for myself, I'm lamenting and there's a difference. I enjoy God's path for me.

Siblings remember and remember well, but no one has keepsakes of a brother or sister...not many anyway. They'll keep something if they die young, but when they die at 40 or 50...they simply don't. They sinply remember. My children won't keep my things, I don't have any. My letters won't find gleeful groups pining for another line.

Don't tell me it's not a big deal, we all think about it...we want legacies, we want a family line. Many, if not most, if not all of you will live many years after your death by the hands of your children.

I am lamenting, not feeling sorry for myself. I needed to say that again. The sky is blue today and I and my bride are headed out doors and I love that! Maybe we'll hop on the bike and head out toward a late season ride to everywhere, I don't know yet.

Sixty years from now no one will care about my Triumph Adventurer, except for the guy I sold it to that hopefully will keep the classic bike pristine.

Your children will look after you when your gone. I suppose Angels will tend to me.

Who remembers an Uncle anyway? Regretfully, I couldn't make it to all my uncle's funerals. I loved them too. I wanted so bad to be there, but I couldn't. I have some photos, nothing else. My Uncle's children and his bride have the rest. I don't have rights to my Uncle y'know? I don't have anything and I'm not entitled to it because their children carry the articles of legacy. I suppose someone will go through my home and hold a big garage sale. Some of you are in the will y'know. You won't keep the rest most likely, and I know the Angels won't care one way or another. But will my nephews and nieces feel like they have the right? The entitlements?

It's ok actually. The life God's chosen for me comprises of catalytic adventures and I for one tremble gratefully by the hand of my Abba.

Oh but I love my family. We gather together like tidal waves and oragami, sometimes we're a force to be reckoned with, sometimes we're delicate. Actually sometimes we're delusional and sometimes we're amazing and sometimes we're emotional. Sometimes we're reminiscent and sometimes we're aggressive and sometimes we're happy and sometimes we're soulful and sometimes we're joyful. We always delight over each other in good and bad, and...we're always amazing.

Maybe I'll go before my parents do. They'll keep some of my stuff.

I imagine though, that when I'm old, and my nephews and nieces have grown, and my three siblings have grown old with me, that there'll be chatter when I'm gone. They'll remember for awhile.

Chatter doesn't smell like anything. Does it need to? Naw...we'll talk again in Heaven.

But I have some laments, I'm not feeling sorry...my children don't look like me and won't carry my things for me. I don't have any.

And who delights over an uncle? Maybe my nephews and nieces will be gladdened by memory of me. Maybe they'll dust off my old treasure box. I hope so, and don't call that arrogant. We all hope so. It's not self-righteous to desire gladness and not disappointment from friends and family.

I think it's more important though that I won't die alone. I know my family and I will not die alone. I am so grateful to God for allowing me that piece of the path.

I realized recently that all of life mirrors God. Some of you don't believe that. I can't help that you don't believe, but it's true anyway. My mom and dad searched me and they knew me. They followed me day and night. They knew when I sat and when I rose. They hemmed me in from either side and nary a hair could fall from my head without their knowledge. They protected me and guided me. Even when I strayed they were there. They and many others banded me by prayer. Even when I fell their hands raised me up. Therefore even my darkness was not too dark for them. Their hands held me fast...

I lament sometimes, I'm not feeling sorry for myself. You've discovered I'm so very fortunate.

They're just things really; foolish to worry. Foolish.

Of course I'll wait for you in heaven, of course. Everything points toward God.

Talk about a legacy. You and I will not live and will not die alone, on either side of eternal life. The rest is dust. But I encourage you to write...actually write something on a piece of paper. Someone will graze their hands over your ink. Write something and leave the shiny new computer closed.

Delight in each other...please.

Family--by rje

I do not feign my soul to keep

To hide in wiles of the deep.

I do not take my life so vein

Resplendent in the prospect wane.

In urushiol green the tine have passed,

A peaceful breath and natures last.

My eyes have seen the earthen mast

And driven forth in dreams and asp.

I yearn to reach the thinning skies

Where oft the eyes of effort lies.

To be more blessed by sanguine breeze

Atop the billows and swarthy trees.

And yet supine and undisturbed

The skies unbroken, not a word.

Acknowledge me this very night!

And break in veins to know my plight.

Each day I wake my hand is filled,

Each day alive and love is willed.

To till the earth and reach the skies

To greet the young, consult the wise.

If I should die before I wake

I pray your grace before them make.

I pray my soul be laid with thee.

I pray my heart be saved for these.

I believe in blossomed joy,

Of Heaven’s poignant mirth.

And I believe, bereft of she

A blackened hole of frightening girth.

But God dost know my spirit’s whim

And I believe before I die

He walks beside the fire and I.

On the wall a portrait be

Pride of heaven joined by thee.

The bride and groom and sunlight’s glee

A sign you’re never leaving me.

Before I wake, Christ holds our soul

Our fallow breath, our whisper low.

The morning dew the cock does crow

And life again within us sown.

And so each morn I wake and write

Lest we forget love’s even sight

A story binds my nest to home

I shall not die alone.

Health Care Reform--and my attempt to remain informed

2009-10-05T10:34:00.009-05:00

Representative Alan Grayson, Democrat from Florida made two wild stabs, two unsustainable claims against Republicans last week: Republicans' health care plan consists of urging the sick to "die quickly," and the GOP has no proposals of its own.

Massive politicking does achieve results, no one can argue that. However, the same politicking often exposes sleaze, lies and corruption, ergo Mr. Grayson. He's throwing dry spitwads at the board hoping they'll stick anyway.

The first claim does no justice to anyone and deserves nothing if not an incredulous booooo! The claim has no merit and is terribly deceitful. The second claim needs a response.

Republicans have presented alternative health care plans and they have presented them often and for several years. Democrats consistently and unabashedly resisted, filibustered and complained about them. And today, because of the Democratic Party's strong majority, they easily hide Republican proposals deep in the bill vault. The Republican proposals might indeed work and work well. Americans would prefer a unified bill. However, healthcare seems to be a one way street these days. A Rassmussen Report in August showed that only 9% of Americans currently support the Democratic Bill proposals on the table. About 70% don't believe we've seen an active bi-partisan partnership here either. They believe (in my words) that we're being railroaded.

Democrats seem to need a system in decline so that their majority push for Government health care deems practical to Americans. They've created such desperate rhetoric that even Hollywood "who's who's" may want to take note. Even President Obama felt the need to lie about details of stories about patients losing insurance benefits.

Earlier this month, when the President addressed a joint sessions of Congress to push health care reform, he said:

"One man from Illinois lost his coverage in the middle of chemotherapy because his insurer found that he hadn't reported gallstones that he didn't even know about. They delayed his treatment, and he died because of it. Another woman from Texas was about to get a double mastectomy when. By the time she had her insurance reinstated, her breast cancer had more than doubled in size. her insurance company canceled her policy because she forgot to declare a case of acne. That is heart-breaking, it is wrong, and no one should be treated that way in the United States of America."

ABC news, FOX and other networks researched the stories. ABC News Senior White House Correspondent said, "In either instance, the stories, as the president told them, were not accurate."

Therefore, I'm going to re-post an article written for the Friday, October 2nd, 2009 issue of Investors Business Daily. I don't want to draw conclusions here, but I do want myself and you to be informed. I do support new health care solutions and I'm not entirely sure what that should look like. The Republican Representatives are fighting a massive uphill battle. They're a super minority for one. Second, conservatives around the country are feeling somewhat betrayed by the Republican Party, and for good reason (spending habits etc.). Republican representatives must work hard, must act like genuine conservatives, to gain their favor.

I favor tort reforms and I favor choice and freedom. Today, however, I'm simply in the mood to perform a bit of fact-checking and offer you my findings.

Rhetoric and blow-hards...bloody confusing. Take time to read--so it takes you awhile. Today, make it worth your time.

Health savings accounts/medical savings accounts: Americans who hold these tax-free accounts, up to $5,950 for a family, use them to pay for basic medical services.In 1996, the Republican Congress passed a medical savings account demonstration program that, in deference to Sen. Ted Kennedy's opposition to MSAs, severely restricted the number of participants. Kennedy tried to kill the MSA provision, but settled on a compromise — a limit of 750,000 accounts.

He was willing to allow a few Americans to have the accounts because he needed the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, which the MSAs were a part of, to pass. In the end, Kennedy won. He got the framework of health care rules that were part of the law, and, due to the bill's heavy regulations, only about 75,000 MSAs were ever sold.

In 2003, the MSA program was replaced by health savings accounts legislation, and roughly 7 million Americans now have them. But Democrats including Rep. Pete Stark of California, who called the accounts "weapons of mass destruction," tried to destroy HSAs through excessive mandates in last year's Taxpayer Assistance and Simplification Act. Fortunately, that bill never became law.

In recent years, Republicans have tried to advance policies that would increase the number of Americans who have HSAs. But Democrats have sat on the proposals. They don't like HSAs because they put patients in charge of their own medical care and push government further away from the process.

Insurance competition: Republicans have also been trying for years to change the law that lets state governments bar insurance companies from selling individual health plans across state lines. If the practice were ever allowed, consumers would have more providers and plans to choose from. The competition would, as competition always does, drive down prices as well.

In 2007, GOP Sen. Jim DeMint of South Carolina offered an amendment that would have permitted Americans to shop for individual plans across state lines. But the Democratic majority in the Senate rejected it.

Tort reform: The Pacific Research Institute estimates that the practice of defensive medicine wastes more than $200 billion a year. With trial lawyers and plaintiffs seeking fortunes through medical malpractice suits, doctors routinely over treat patients to cover themselves in the event they are sued. They also pay higher malpractice insurance premiums because insurers often have to pay dearly in malpractice cases. These conditions increase costs.

For years Republicans have tried to bring down health care expenses though legislation that would place reasonable limits on the amount of damages a jury can award. But they have had little success at the federal level going against the party that's inextricably linked to the trial bar and its generous campaign contributions.

Current legislation: Just this year, the GOP has proposed more than 30 health care bills in just the House. But those bills, which cover issues from costs to portability, have gone nowhere in Democratically controlled Washington. "The White House, in spite of saying they look forward to meeting with anybody who wants to solve these challenges, has rebuffed us at every turn," GOP Rep. Tom Price of Georgia told the Examiner newspapers.

In response to calls that he apologize for his inflammatory comments, Rep. Grayson sarcastically said he would "apologize to the dead and their families that we haven't voted sooner to end this holocaust in America."

Give the first-term congressman credit. Having distracted the media with his sideshow, they don't have time to report on the Republicans' efforts to improve health care in America through consumer-driven policies.

And we don't have to look further than our own borders to see how "Universal" health care might work, and what the actual cost might be. Kerri Houston Toloczko, Senior Vice President for Policy at the Institute of Liberty and the director of its Center for Health Security and Access reported:

"Hawaii's Prepaid Healthcare Act and its coverage mandates have left Hawaiians with fewer coverage choices, higher costs and nearly double the number of uninsured. Recent budget cuts resulted in discontinuation of its coverage for children.

Oregon's state-controlled care includes an official list that dictates what treatments will be covered based on annual budget constraints. If your disease is above the treatment line, you are covered. Below the line — you're not.

However, patients being denied treatment often receive an additional note in their denial letters — the system telling them it will pay for "physician aid in dying." Oregon won't help you live, but it will help you die.

In the three years since the Massachusetts "universal" coverage plan was launched, the state still has thousands of uninsured, costs have exploded to unsustainable levels, and waiting lists for treatments have appeared.

Tennessee's "TennCare" program, an attempt to expand coverage to low-income uninsured, included dead people, escaped felons and NBA stars. It drove doctors and insurers out of the state, and has been on the brink of insolvency several times.

Tennessee's Democrat governor, Phil Bredesen, recently went to Washington, D.C., to explain to Congress that government health care does not lower cost.

But perhaps the worst — Maine's universal coverage plan is most similar to the plans circulating on Capitol Hill. It was proposed in May 2003 by Democrat Gov. John Baldacci and passed a scant four weeks later. Much like the $787 billion federal "stimulus" plan that passed Congress in February of this year, nobody read the Dirigo plan either.

While greasing the pipeline for quick passage of Dirigo Health, the governor assured that all of Maine's 128,000 uninsured would be covered by 2009, the bureaucracy would be streamlined and health costs lowered, and the plan would fund itself based on system savings with no tax increases — a similar claim to what President Obama has said about a new federal plan.

Six years after it was passed, it has insured only 3% — roughly 3,400 — of the 128,000 promised.

By 2007, the system was so broke that it closed to new enrollees. It still has not reopened and has also cut and capped benefits. The "streamlined" bureaucracy has cost the state's taxpayers $17 million in administrative costs to cover 9,600 people, leading one to wonder if there are more bureaucrats in the system than enrollees.

Systemwide insurance costs have increased 74% since Dirigo was passed, and the governor and legislature have tried — unsuccessfully — to raise taxes to fund the system.

Dirigo's more "efficient" bureaucracy started out with an aggregator agency for health records and a cost administration agency, but it now includes numerous councils to study this, that and anything else bureaucrats can conceive.

These agencies also dictate to providers how much they can spend on new technologies and diagnostic machines even though these costs are borne by physicians and hospitals and not the state.

Dirigo has failed because it lacks market forces, ignores the nature of the uninsured and was more interested in bloating its bureaucracy than providing care to patients."

I'm not sure what plan will gain the most support. Several million of those who do not have health insurance choose not to carry insurance. Others genuinely want Health Care Insurance but can't have it for one or a number of reasons. I'm hoping I'm a citizen worthy of their honest debate, not political trickery.

Government assistance has merit, just ask Military personnel, ADA patients and more about that. But healthcare on a wide, universal scale may not work at all...in fact global research exposes many problems.

I can't stand the thought of being hoodwinked, even though I'm sure I have been a thousand times over. I still don't have to like it. A Canadian friend says one of two things--things can be quite difficult there and good "doctoring" is hard to find. Major procedures can take months and months to complete etc. But for the most part things seem to work well enough and since he doesn't know any better, he doesn't know what there is to complain about. That is a telling statement. We have to be very cognizant about the quite excellent care the many millions are receiving here now...including illegals who need emergency care, and what vast changes might do to that. Other than that, sweeping changes might be a good thing.

Motorcyclist's Championship Bout

2009-09-29T07:24:00.011-05:00

The wind sucked. We rode our relatively heavy Triumph Adventurer 900 sideways. Monique and I felt like rolling back-slashes. I mean, begin with this "\", then mentally draw a motorcycle and two freaked people on the seats. That's us.

We left on Saturday morning to Omaha; a little cool maybe, but we own the gear. We rode well and besides my somewhat chilled and pickled fingers, the world turned and we rolled.

Sunday. Went to church on a relatively calm morning, excited about God and the prospect of riding home on a perfect day. Leaving church however felt more like the disciple's big day on the sea of Galilee.

"This could be interesting," I said.

"Uh-huh," replied Monique, obviously working her Zen.

Hunger. The prospect of a big family meal held our aversions at bay.

We'd had eggs, biscuits and gravy and all kinds of good coffee for breakfast. Dinner...King Tut might've enjoyed dinner. Ham, potatoes, cheesy broccoli, soft baked bread and coleslaw filled our stomachs, and that was before a delicious birthday cake slid gracefully down.

Couldn't ignore it anymore. Monique geared up looks a bit like the Michelin man. But the bike goes down and she slides across the pavement like she's on a magic carpet ride and lives to tell the story. I love my Michelin wife. Her jacket is actually red and black and her helmet, gray. The rest of her is back alley black and I find that totally hot.

"This could be interesting."

"Uh Huh".

I like the back roads but interstate 80 is really a lovely ride filled with rolling hills, beautiful flats and on the best days lots of sunshine.

Sunday though... back-slash bikers, "\", ...that's us. The wind sucked. The gusts were even more amazing. War-like. I'd say it was like the entire Senior High football team testing their metal on the pip squeak. You ever been sucker punched by a prize fighter? Me neither, but take a ride at thirty degrees ("\") and there ya go. Except God was the prize fighter, Rocky freakin Balboa, and I was the librarian who thought nothing of peeing in his ever lovin' shorts.

Forty-five miles. We rode toward an exit replete with Kum-N-Go and a BP or something like that. Monique's hand pops into view and points toward the exit.

I get that. I wanted off.

"Holy Moly," I said.

"My body is stiff from freaking out!" is what Monique said. "Every time I felt like I was going to be ok another titanic gust hit the bike and I'd rush back to oblivion again."

"This is soooo not my favorite ride."

We stopped every 50 miles or so tell ya the truth. Stops are good ways to get to know the area. You look around, breath the air, kiss the road.

Frequent stops provided much needed relief. Even the hardened need relief. And still...only took ten minutes to stop the shaking before we were on the road again.

Mind numbing fear doesn't hold a candle to the spirit of the contumacious adventurer. Believe that. We were out there. A lot of people wouldn't be. Still, our bodies felt more like adventuresome noodles the first 90 miles.

Tell ya something else though...we got used to it. Sort of tells you how numb our minds were doesn't it? Besides the interstate 80's Sunday afternoon semi-fleet, and besides the nutty college kids trying to get back to college, and besides our angled ride and the championship bout with God's windy left hook, the ride home wasn't so bad.

The trees and prairie were bending over the rolling hills. Flocks of geese flew overhead. The road was straight enough and I can handle the college kids. The earth turned and the our wheels rolled.

So we tacked another motorcycle adventure underneath our belts. There were quite a few bikes out there actually and the lot of us waved our way through. One dude passed us riding his Harley Fatboy. His cheeks stretched and flapped in combination with strong winds and eighty miles per hour. I'm sure it took some effort to keep his mouth closed. He might've easily been in the gravity machine they use to test the resilience of your average astronaut. He wasn't though. He and his bike leaned into a steady road and a mighty gale. Stretched cheeks were nothing compared to the biker's smile reaching both ears.

The adventurous giants we are...some would call us adventurous jack-asses and they might be right.

But we were out there, 'nuf said.

And we were really, really....really glad to be home.

Jed

2009-09-23T13:31:00.009-05:00

The farmer's name was Jed. A farmer named Jed, I can't write a story that perfect. He lives outside a small town in northwest Iowa. You can find him behind the dust and rows every Autumn. You can find him chuggin' another red sunset and burning up another golden sunrise. I saw him on the road one day and I know he knew me. He gave me two fingers. They lifted gently off the steering wheel and then he was gone. I gave him the same sixty-mile-an-hour greeting at that exact moment. Why two fingers? That's how it's done, you don't need to know why. Three fingers meant you didn't understand the vibrations felt by a Northwest Iowa farmer. Three fingers mean you didn't get it. The two finger wave has nothing to do with individualism or unique personalities. They're not derived from rebellion or defiance. Two finger waves are a time honored tradition, a connection meaning, "I'm, free and I live free. I've the strength pawns could never comprehend." They mean they're not the citified junket waving hands and feet and head and hair chaotically if not erratically and joyfully at whomever. Jed feels there's more power in self-control, more strength within subtleties. Jed could probably do with a little more expression, but two fingers wield a lifetime of it. Nothing to prove... just have to know it.

If you wave ignorantly (your entire hand, for instance), It just means you've got a lot to learn about the vibrations of an enormous and free life, and the power of two fingers. The air smells better, feels fresher and rejuvenates robustly on free land. The dirt feels less like dust and more like potential. It is after all the beginning of our creation.

I didn't need chores to find a red sun behind his dust. I needed two fingers. Jed simply trusted that I knew that my meal that day might've come by him and them. Understand another without words.

I'm sure he does well enough, but you wouldn't know it by the rust draining from his Ford 150. I guess maybe he should ask for help more often. He sometimes takes on milking jobs to get by the winter. He gets by. And he lives free. The motor behind the farmers rusty paradise took him through two hundred and fifty thousand and some odd miles. Wisdom teaches that some miles aren't always clean and shiny, but you can count on them none-the-less.

Dan called me saying he fixed my motorcycle. Thirteen days and 9 1/2 hours. That's how long I'd been without it. Dan beamed for me. Really. He did. He's a biker. He gets it. I felt exuberant.

My ride doesn't supply 60% of the nations GDP. The shop gained some wealth by my misfortune, but nothing about my motorcycle feeds a hungry nation... but not everything has to. All I did was slice the wind and I became Jed, the free man. Freedom is the snap of an umbilical chord. Freedom is leaving the life of childhood and finding your place. Freedom is a clash between the heart and the heartless. And a free man chooses to thrive and learn no matter the journey. Freedom is the pursuit. The air is fresher and cleaner and more robust.

Those of us on bikes breathe the rushing air, a gush of freedom.

I don't know why God trusts us enough to pound us with burdens. It is the burden of the wise to give others all the time they need. Many have never learned the art of leaving, of being cut. Those who have sleep and wake up the next morning wondering where it all went and move on anyway. Life like trucks and motorcycles vibrates underneath us and the wind splashes our faces bending the skin until it hurts. Journeymen find exhilaration from the pain and joy from life. Vibration and wind proves life is. Jed...his fingers are dirty, having lived in the dust from whence they came. Dirt is where he finds his purpose and grit is where he understands a free life. Some people get hands dirty and others write about them. None-the-less, umbilical-less hands thrive with sin and integrity.

The road was bumpy and magnificent, and my bike purred. Ridin' bikes is like the ultimate skinny dip. Layered burdens tear away, and all that's left between you and God is creation and death.

I'm working on a project right now, as we speak. I've got a long ways to go. I suppose we all do; have a long ways to go, I mean. The world is wide and noisy, but rumbles and vibrations and motion pare all things down to a still small voice, and fingers.

I love riding and I loved riding away from the fix-it shop. Another biker rode toward me, hopefully not to the shop. I suspect not. His hand moved from the bars and dropped to his side...at the right moment one finger pointed outward toward the ground, the biker's greeting. His one finger wave exists in a crowd of a million one finger waves and I returned the favor. It's just a one-finger wave really. Just saying "hi", just letting me know I'm out there. That's what I said, he or she let's me know I'm out here. Car drivers can be an unobservant lot. I'm not anymore. It's amazing how many close calls are made because the car driver can't or won't see me or my motorcycle. Bikers just want each other to know they're seen... makes the tired vigilant feel safer, welcome.

Either way, It's another wave, the biker's code and I know it full well. "You've come from somewhere, I get that," he said, "Take in the wind, welcome to the journey, and enjoy the road...you're a free man now." Like understanding the voice of God, I'm challenged to listen without words.

Lifeboats and Motorcycles

2009-09-09T10:40:00.004-05:00

The Triumph Adventurer rolled down interstate 29 south, opposite the direction I needed. She was shackled into chocks; her muscles failed. Monique and I had never taken a long interstate run. We were three hours in and one hour short. She didn't give up necessarily. She growled, but had no bite beyond 45 mph. That was difficult for me. As those who ride know, the road and wind might as well be vitamin C.

All that gear and no place to go. The rider stumped and the riderless shackled.

Life gets to me that way. I've got the tools, the gear. I ask for one good day, then something breaks.

Many of you have heard the story of the man and the flood. The man prayed for God to save him from the flood. Soon a rescuer in a boat floated by and yelled for him to jump into the boat. The home owner declined believing God would save him. Another boat came and the same scenario. The dire moments had arrived and the house would soon be covered by waters. A rescuer in a helicopter flew in and attempted a rescue but the homeowner again declined, believing God would save him, even when waters rushed by. The man drowned, and he went to Heaven. He asked God why he wasn't saved from the flood (The theology behind the story might be debatable, but continue listening!). God said, "I sent two boats and a helicopter..."

I asked for one good day. We've been stressed. I called my friend who lives in Sioux City, but he was in Minneapolis vacationing. He told me, though, to hold tight. Five minutes later he called me back and said a truck and trailer were on their way. My friend owns a motorcycle. Brad petitioned another friend to hitch up his own trailer to his friends truck and go to help me out. Chris would take my bike to Brad's house, until I returned to Sioux City on Monday, at which point we'd figure out what to do. I waited forty minutes or so when Chris, the truck and trailer, motored in.

In the mean time my Dad suggested I call my sister and brother-in-law. My two sisters, their families, myself and Monique and mom and dad were to spend the long holiday weekend together at Lifelight Music Festival, the largest free Christian music festival in the country I believe. So I called them. Turns out they were five miles past our location. They turned around, unquestioningly agreeing to haul us and our gear to Sioux Falls with them.

We arrived at the festival site on Friday night... disappointed, frustrated, stressed and worried.

One good day, God.

We vented a few moments before some of us decided to attend one of the concerts--the group Kutless was playing and I wanted to see them. They put on a somewhat raucous concert full of haunted lyrics and emotional music. And yet their show was fun, energetic and uplifting. The air was cool and the breath fresh.

The flood story relates, you see. I got rescued. One good day. Two actually. There are no Triumph dealers in Sioux City. My dealer and service station is in Des Moines, three hours away. Brad's a police officer and had to work Monday night at Eleven. He and I met at his house at 4 p.m. He and I had resolved by phone that he would take me and the bike to Des Moines that night. Brad felt it to be the best idea out of several difficult scenarios.

And so he did. He drove three or four hours from Minneapolis, hitched my bike to the truck and drove me three hours to Des Moines and then had to drive back to Sioux City where his job awaited him.

One good day. The best of friends, God's providence, and miracles galore.

The hairs on my head are numbered says writer Luke, quoting Jesus himself in Luke 12. And so this morning I learned for the millionth time how to pray.

I'm feeling tired. I didn't sleep last night, but went to my Wednesday morning men's bible study anyway. At 2 a.m. I was sure I wasn't going to go. But my friend Neal said that when he's up and can't sleep, he reads his bible, and finds himself at peace. I did that this morning. I read Psalm 73, Matthew 4, Luke 12...Neal was right, my angst lessened, and I hung out with God.

So I went this morning--a hundred men get together, have breakfast, chat and study God's word. We call it "PIGS"--that's "Pretty Important Guy Stuff." Pigs was pretty good. Pastor Richard began a series on Prayer. He said some very profound and simple things. Like when Jesus taught us to pray saying ABBA. Richard stopped there. Abba.

Christians know the prayer..."hallowed be thy name..." Christians recite the rest of the prayer solemnly and reverently, many times in respectfully toned unison. Abba, Father.

Christians over time manipulate the prayer into this reverent, "Thou, Thee, Yahweh" prayer. We've filled the prayer with pharisaical rancor, denying what God always wanted--to dote on his people.

Thou's, thee's and Yahweh's" actually serves to fill us with doubt. "God is too big, God is too fearful..." We want to sound respectful or reverent, but our attempts at "respect" only serve to create distance between God and I and deny the words of Christ who at the pinnacle moment, revealed a God who prefers to be called, "Dad". Instead, our prayerful words prove to those around us that God is to be feared in such a way that he is almost unapproachable.

So Jesus taught us something different. And that difference really meant something to me this morning. In my tired, fearful, disappointed place, were Jesus words, "Abba Father." And what Jesus began teaching with two words--"Dear Dad..."

One of the lead singers said this weekend to a group of 100,000 people, "We are not the sum total of our choices, no. You and I are the sum total of God's choices." My mistakes do not turn away a doting father. My failures only prove to teach how saved I really am. This man said, "We are not a people here struggling to be free, we are a people free to struggle and to then have an honest conversation with God."

An honest conversation with God. There are several contained in the bible, and I've had several in the last few days. One good day God! Please! But, I'm a son leaning on my dad. Jesus taught me about that.

And so I prayed that way this morning.

"Dear Dad, I know you love me and the hairs on my head are known. I know, because you are my dad, that you will walk with me and even carry me when I need. I know you will guide me past temptation. I know that, because you crown me more gloriously than the sparrow, you will always fill me with bread. And even if I am hungry, my heart will rejoice because your kingdom comes, and is here. Your power is, and yet your just ways provided me with mercy and with grace. I don't understand everything dad. I guess I am just a kid. But one day I shall fully know. What I know dad, is that you are glorious, and I love you."

"One good day God." ... ... "Dad?"

Unconditional Love Never Needs a Reason

2009-09-03T11:52:00.006-05:00

I've spent the half a year really speaking not only of relationships, but what it really means to commit yourselves to them. I've written about myself, my birth defect and my accomplishments. I've written about my wife, her radiance, her beauty, her generosity, her kindness and her love for me and her friends. I've written of the many amazing RAGBRAI riders and how their lives intertwine with others all week long. I've written how none are left alone on the road. I've written how some battle the forces of time by their accomplishments and how others are humbled by them. I've written how the best of men return from battle only to be vilified at home. I've written of their strength while their country turned their backs on them. I've written about how one man, forty years removed from battle, saluted my dad, a Viet Nam Vet and said, "Welcome home brother." I've written about a group of Vets that my Dad-in-law has connected with, and how, even now, their bond brings healing. Even now no man gets left behind.

I've written how it is we ought to live together. I've written that it's okay to disagree, to quarrel, to struggle. But then I told you that together you must find the way to repair each other.

I've told you what it is to love.

I tried hard to help you to view others in light of their story. I've told you that for your story to be heard, you must first listen to the story of the other. I've tried to help you magnify your joy for the triumph of others, and by your joy they will also share your triumph. I've told you to listen to instruction, to gain wisdom from rebuke and to enjoy rewards together.

the best relationships, the best friends are those that bear the joys and trials of the other. The best relationships and the best friends take us with them no matter where that is. The best relationships and the best friends don't need "permission" to take the other with them on whatever journey is being engaged. And committed relationships and the best of friends accept the baggage of the other. They're willing to lug that baggage with them, and in many cases, lug the baggage for them. The best relationships and the best friends know that baggage sometimes takes a long time to shed, walls are sometimes difficult to knock down and illnesses sometimes take forever to heal; sometimes they never heal. The best relationships and the best friends love you till the ending day and even the days after your last. The best relationships and the best of friends want to be there to watch you shed the baggage, tear the walls down, and fight the most feared battles.

The wiles and wills of mankind are often to walk alone, separate from another. You nor I need work long to prove this.

It is often the wiles of mankind to take every disconnect and to threaten, even in jest, to leave another.

It is often the wiles of mankind to spend more energy giving up, giving in, than living hopeful, faithful lives.

Even my last two stories were intended to help you discover another.

Unconditional love never looks for a reason not to love. Unconditional love never desires a reason to leave.

I won't necessarily move away from this theme, but I'm going to look for different themes now as well. Maybe you'll look back at past posts to help you find the best and most courageous of your own path.

The video below reveals a dance about one of our worst fears...breast cancer. By this dance you can find how the strength of unconditional love bridges the gap between fear and courage. It reveals how, even at the weakest points, even when the hurting wish to give up, to run away, the other will be there for them and with them. It will show you the unending strength of those with hope and the need for the truest friends when it seems there is none.

The dance will inspire you to wake up and live now. And it will inspire you to be the most amazing friend, the strongest heart, and the best of companions. The journey never ends--what matters is that you travel together.

Watch and live.

Of Chipmunks and Men

2009-08-21T07:24:00.033-05:00

"Haaaaaaa!"

Camper Neal Smith jumped from behind some brush yelling and screaming, hoping to give Rick a scare. Thought it'd be funny. Rick was studying one thing or another in the forest for the last forty-five minutes and it was driving Neal nuts.

"Son of a!" Rick shuffled nearly four feet backwards. He moved so fast, it was like time travel.

Neal didn't enjoy idle time. They'd entered an amazing state park complete with abundant exploration possibilities and an awesome beach. Neal could think of no acceptable reason they should be sitting around. Joe was mesmerized by the fire, and Rick was, well, he had no idea.

"Rat bastard." said Rick.

"What?"

"The chipmunk!," Rick replied. He was pissed. "I've sat here for almost an hour with this stupid bread in my hand, and my chipmunk was three feet from eating the bread from my hand."

"Your chipmunk?" asked Neal. I don't think it's the bread that's stupid; who spends an hour on their knees waiting for chipmunks to eat bread out of their hand?"

"Me," said Rick, "Judas."

And yes, my chipmunk, Rick continued. "I don't have to explain."

"He's not tame, he's not yours," joked Neal.

"Well I wasn't holding out for any other chipmunks!" replied Rick, "I only had that one...and a squirrel but he didn't last."

"How do you know it was a he." Neal never did know when to quit. "They can't all be 'he' or there wouldn't be so many of those buggers running around."

"That's not the point. I call them all he, that's just how it is," said Rick. "Short of catching one and tipping it over, they're all 'he'. I probably couldn't tell the difference anyhow."

"I am not even going there," said Neal. "Doesn't matter. I want to do something like hit the beach."

"When I camp I do three things," said Rick, "smoke a cigar, drink a beer, and try to get a chipmunk to eat from my hand," said Rick.

"Who does that?" asked Neal.

"I think we covered that already," said Rick. "Anyway, waiting here...the forest calms me. It's peaceful for me. I listen to the sounds in the forest...sort of like get in touch with nature or whatever."

"Who does that?"

"Who turned you into a friggin' broken record player?"

"What?" Neal had his eyes closed. He rubbed his forehead. "Let's do something."

"I mean, there's something amazing about getting a wild animal to trust me. It's like I think it was when Adam and Eve were created," explained Rick. "I suppose I'm like one of the trees to them, I don't know."

"You're a tree with Wonder Bread branches," said Neal. "Awesome."

Neal paused, "But you're a biker. There's not a Harley man in the world that tries to get chipmunks to eat from their hand," said Neal, "You've got a skull on your gas cap and now you're taming chipmunks."

"It's a God thing man," said Rick, "And the bike came with the gas cap."

"Really?" said Neal, "You should find one with a little heart on it or something."

"Funny," said Rick. "Either way, I'm sitting there in complete silence, as still as possible, and the wind blows, birds sing, and chipmunks appear out of nowhere. Stuff happens man, I'm telling you."

"Dude, that's cool, but I think I'd probably fall asleep face down on the bread and the chipmunk would probably gnaw through my nose to get to the bread," said Neal. "Totally great movie plot."

"You wouldn't fall asleep," Rick replied. "Either way, when they take the bread from my hand, it tickles. Feels so cool. And the little thing is completely silent. You wouldn't believe it, but they don't make any sound. They get the bread and they're gone like magic."

"I like nature."

Neal didn't quite know what to say beyond, "I like nature." It's not like he was ignorant. He just wasn't the type to feed chipmunks.

"It's about the book of Matthew," said Rick.

"Matthew?"

"If God is willing to clothe the sparrow, how much more blessing will be given to me?" said Rick. "Accept I think the analogy works for chipmunks too."

"That's deep," said Neal. "You feeling insecure?"

"Sometimes," Rick replied. "It's just good to know, that's all."

"A chipmunk feeding Harley dude," said Neal, "That's just funny. Now let's do something!"

"What do we do?"

"Joe's by the fire, let's go and figure that out," replied Neal, "We'll go swimming or play catch, I don't care."

Neal and Rick joined Joe by the fire. Joe stared into the flames.

Neal sipped his luke warm beer. Rick nibbled on Cheese Nips.

"Swim?" asked Neal.

"Sure," said the two others simultaneously.

Joe, Neal and Rick, partially slouched in their chairs, sipped beer and nibbled crackers. The fire burned and they watched, rapt by flames. The burning logs hissed and spit. The three men, without a word, listened to the fire crackle.

A healthy chipmunk skirted from behind them, ran underneath their chairs to the other side of the fire pit. He paused to test some morsel on the ground, but then scampered silently into another part of the forest.

One Faith, One Hope, One Baptism: A Marriage story

2009-08-15T10:16:00.019-05:00

"Hi Grandpa!" said granddaughter Morgan and her husband Roger.

Grandpa's head turned lightly toward them.

A cloudy, dull day, but the small hospital room was painted yellow and stenciled with four leaf clovers. Happy enough.

Morgan and Roger had Sam with them. Their child was three weeks old; the child of two horny 19-year-olds...a sequence of events which birthed a shot-gun wedding six weeks ago, and then Samuel John three weeks later.

They were a Christian family. Nine-months ago grandpa couldn't understand where they had gone wrong. The old man had once been an executive, strong, stalwart and righteous. Nine months ago he couldn't understand weakness.

Sam was wrapped in a borrowed blankey.

A friend had loaned them all the baby stuff she and her husband had. There was no baby shower. It seemed for a time the family was even embarrassed to even admit the two had gotten "together."

Grandpa turned to them feebly. Seven months ago he'd almost disowned his granddaughter... turned his back on her. Six months and two weeks ago he'd discovered he was cancer-ridden. Six months ago his own son had reminded him why his own wife, their mother, had almost divorced him twenty-five years prior.

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

He'd had a lovely library and one of the most complete libraries amongst his friends and acquaintances. He'd spent hours and hours in the lovely place, studying, reading, practicing one of a thousand speeches. He'd garnered the love of the shareholders, but neglected to gather the hearts of his family.

"Ask your mother, I'm busy!," he'd say. "And don't come in here while I'm working!"

Accept he was always working. The church had him pegged as an excellent family man. The kids hated that. Everyone suffers from closet skeletons.

Today, yesterday and for six months Grandpa understood weakness, finally. The kind of 'weak' that needs help. He never needed help. The help wasn't all he'd learned.

He turned toward Morgan, Roger and Sam. There they were. They had been there every single day for the last ten days he'd been stuck in the hospital. So had his three children, but Morgan... Morgan lived "outside the box" so to speak. She'd neglected the idea of college to her work at a local floral shop. He'd called her when Morgan's parents mentioned that she was going to wait awhile before deciding about college.

"You're throwing your life away, I fear," he'd told her.

"Grandpa, stop it," was all she said. "You worry too much."

"You come from better stock than flower shop retail, Morgan."

"You delivered milk, Grandpa. You always tell us you began as the milkman."

The "Milk man" story really took shape when his wife had their first child. Friends really thought it was funny to say, "He looks just like the milk man!"

Anyway, it happens, ya get stuck. Twenty-five years ago he'd realized how stuck he'd been.

He never did sign the divorce papers. He went to counseling instead. None of his friends ever knew he'd seen a shrink.

And his family did not leave him. None of them did.

He once told his pastor, "I never understood why kids who barely knew their father, and only ever heard their mother whine about him, would do so much to help me see the light!"

"Unconditional love doesn't look for reasons not to love," the pastor replied.

They all coaxed him into vast life changes. They endured. They prayed. Margie, his wife, died last year. She'd had a heart attack. They thought she might make it, actually. Four long days in the hospital and she seemed to perk up. But her heart failed her in the end...too damaged.

Before she died though, she took his hand and gave him a benediction. All those years and she was still blessing him. Every day she'd say, "I believe in you, Jack." Kinda pissed him off for years. He felt it put too much pressure on him.

"Yea, yea, great," he'd say, never giving her a thought. He now wished he'd blessed her more. But that was water under the bridge, bygones, history. He tried much harder the last couple years of her life. They talked a long time one night, a few years back. Talked till 4 a.m.

"I never understood where that came from," Jack said.

"I just believed in you so I told you so," Margie replied. "I could see the real you underneath the layers. I knew you were great, even in the beginning when your job title was "milkman.""

"I didn't see you that way though," said Jack. "I regret that every day."

"Can't cry over spilt milk, my dear Jack."

"Ha ha, very funny."

And then he'd almost disowned his granddaughter; couldn't believe his good name had been disparaged.

"Good name, yea right," he thought.

But here they were. Still smiling. He supposed they meant to encourage him; maybe encourage themselves. His hospital room was full of their flowers, their teddy bears.

"Maybe my name wasn't so bad after all?" he thought. "There you go again," again to himself, "It's not always about me for cryin-out-loud!"

These kids were his family.

"The body of Christ doesn't leave itself!" his granddaughter had told him amongst alligator tears on the fateful Tuesday evening seven months ago.

"Where'd you learn such wisdom?" he'd asked her a few weeks after that.

A few months ago had been rough. He'd been angry. But her words cut him through. Then he remembered his wife's benediction.

Most of them were with him today. They'd stayed with him and ten days slogged by. He felt odd. The kids simply watched, smiling...blue and sad and smiling all at once. Ironic. He was going to die. Sad. But they smiled.

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

"Hi, Grandpa," she said, "Lookin' good as usual." She always said that.

The body of Christ doesn't leave itself.

"Wanna hold him, Grandpa?"

He hadn't the strength to "hold" him. He understood weakness better today than ever before. He nodded. Morgan took four steps to his bedside, leaned over and laid Samuel in the crest of his arm. He didn't move. She kissed his forehead and then Sam lifted his hand in the air...a reaction to the movement or a dream, he didn't know. Didn't matter much.

A solitary tear left Jack's eyelid and crawled down his face. He was beautiful. He couldn't exactly turn completely to look at him, but felt Sam's quick even breaths.

Jack brought one hand over and touched Sam. Then he whispered. Morgan and Roger stepped closer to him to listen, and both of them began to cry. "My first great-grandson," he said.

"May the Lord bless you and keep you," he prayed. "May the Lord shine his face upon you. May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you his peace."

The body of Christ does not leave itself.

He closed his eyes. And while Sam breathed on, he breathed his last.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

Gridiron

2009-08-11T11:45:00.005-05:00

"You know how it works in South Philly," said Max to his pal Vince Papale in the sports film Invincible, "Our strength has always been in our numbers."

Guts. I don't even know how to tell the story. I don't. It's a true story and I can't tell it. This movie's fronted by Vince Papale's story. A hard-up, "you ain't nutten" part-time bar-tender named Vince Papale attends open try-outs for the Philadelphia Eagles Pro Football. Vince eventually makes the team, carrying the boys at Max's bar and the streets of Philly itself along with him.

"Vincy, I don't know how long the Eagles are going to need ya...but the boys could use a little help here."

I can relate to retreating to what feels safe. The unemployed men with broken families and confusing lives left their feelings alone, but found a safe place where friends found something normal. They might've had a few beers at Max's, but the film never portrayed any of these battered guys as drunkards, but as steely tough, vulnerable and broken men. I sympathized with them. I've retreated to my haven, hoping I could trust the place.

The Eagles ran open try-outs one day somewhere in 1980. A relatively uneducated part-time bar-tender athlete from Philly's inner hallways made the team and took a city, doubled over in gray and racked with double digit unemployment, with him.

Sports people would like to think that a city relies on a professional team's reputation. But most average people can't remember who won the Superbowl last year. What they do see for a time though, is potential. I remember how I felt when a tiny, thin, short quarter back named Doug Flutie threw the century's finest college ball hail mary to win a championship game. The game was a very long time ago, but I've gone back to that game from time to time--a tiny Canadian quarterback inspired some of what I believed was possible after that.

Max at Max's bar ran a tab for the "guys." Max never "sewed up" his tabs. I suppose one day he figured they'd pay him back. I'm not sure they ever would--I don't know--it's a true story, maybe I should go ask him. For a time Max simply ran a safe=-house called "Max's bar." The guys would get cranky, they'd hack on each other, they'd talk, they'd drink in silence, they'd...they simply did what they did.

Vince made the team and practiced every day, trying to avoid final cuts. It's understandable that he might not have taken much time for everyone else. None-the-less, his buddies had gotten together every week well before he made the team to play a scratch game on some dirty gridiron, hushed by stolid dreams and accidental enthusiasm. They grappled on no-where streets, tapped by time and economy, a citified desert. Vince drove up to the shadows, hoping for anonymity...embarrassed by his own plight maybe. Great purpose means nothing if you stand alone. Haven.

He couldn't hide and a friend noticed him. "You're friends could use a boost, y'know?" the friend said.

"I got practice..." was all Vince could say.

What's he practicing for? A bigger purpose? Maybe.

I have to think that none of us can avoid purpose. But you don't leave your friends behind, you take them with you. My two RAGBRAI's might've been fun without the team. But I'm sure I've got better stories than I would've because they were there with and for me, and I them.

Friends most likely allowed you to survive this far. They come along.

Portable havens.

Rain came. Mud became what was to overcome and rain washed them. The storm mirrored the boy's scratch football game-- there was no money in it for 'em. There was the plan, the play, the obstacles and triumph. The guys bent each other in blood and brotherhood. They became men of steel and dreams again.

Homes don't protect if there's a hole in the roof. Storms get through. Chains can't hold if a link is missing.

Vince, whetted for his real story hit the melted gridiron and joined his guys. Let the storm rage because nothing could touch them that night. The hole was patched, the link mended.

Leave no man behind.

Christians live in a culture of Skepticism. Maybe they always have.

But we've become more about doing church than following Christ and living amongst his work today. If you could see you wouldn't ask what he'd do and simply follow what he's doing. "Church" is a weekly convocation of the converted and the content. Discipleship is a daily grapple between huddles, plays and action. So many are antagonistic towards working out our faith, crutching their doctrine and theology to their inaction.

I've said it before--I can't win the world for Christ as if He's dead--no, Christ is winning the world to himself and I must be a part of it. If I didn't know better, I'd say a good portion of the Church thinks that church programs fill the void between conversion and heaven. How many of us see the propriety of “church” as the relationship with God? Congregations maintain an 1800’s culture which didn’t change very quickly and didn’t have to react quickly either. Congregations love their schedules, patterns, rituals. Being recessed in ritual blinds you from what’s happening outside the sanctuary’s four walls. We need to change our focus of church from elegant and eloquent apologetics to building the fruits of the Spirit.

No man left behind.

Realize you need the dust and the gridiron because that's where your friends are, and that's where Christ is working. The power of even small pieces of generosity make huge differences in the lives of your friends.

Pastor Harvey Carey said, "How many binders do you need to do ministry?" Everyone has a binders that give them information about this program, this song, this plan... All those binders are now on the shelf! No more binders! Be the church and do the work of the kingdom."

Break from studying the play-book. Find the storm and the mud-spray because the grapple, the tussle wages heavily there.

They're more than a purpose. They're friends. They're havens.

Vince wasn't pretty, but he was passionate. "The boys can use you right now Vincy, their strength has always been in our numbers..."

My Bride

2009-08-04T07:56:00.004-05:00

The Bride

A marvelous thing,

Love on this side of eternal life.

Love opened the universe.

Envelopes friendship

Embraces need

Strives for perfection

Forgives and heals.

The breeze breathes

Is like the breath of your

Soul that refreshes mine.

Wind unrestricted

Is my life by yours.

Expanding universe

Explosions of creation

Light from early days

Pierces me today.

God’s hand reaches.

My image is His

and my soul endures

on one side of eternal life or another.

I am tended.

Allow time’s pass

Time is our chariot

To the other side of eternal life

Celebrate and live, strong and courageous.

One side time,

The other eternity,

And both divine

With you and my heart…

My heart affixed to yours

In eternity by God’s hand

In death ne’er shall we part,

By God I am with you

On this side and the next.

My eyes are closed

so that I might see

in vivid color and clarity

all that might be

God's design in love.

I am delighted that He has sought

that we might walk together.

RAGBRAI--Tour of Triumph

2009-07-26T17:54:00.034-05:00

Photo taken by Mary Chind of the Des Moines Register

He appeared feeble. Coffee dribbled from his lips. Wooden tables supported the weight of six--five and a half really.

"Five bulls and an old man," we thought.

"I've ridden RAGBRAI for 37 years," he said as we chewed.

Cyclists numbered hundreds around us, but the table dimmed as if in a Monastery. Strong young men and women sat with us. It was only mere seconds earlier when the lot of us judged an old, bent, coffee stained man with Elvis side-burns.

We hesitated...,"How old are you?" asked one cyclist.

"Eighty-four," is all he said.

Whispers and triumph walk hand in hand.

One and a half hours before my spot opened at the picnic table, pale fog rested against the morning sun in the flaunted hills of Iowa like water in a farmer's bucket. One by one, two by two and by the hundreds, silhouetted riders charged into the screen. Pedaled bulls. Breath and breaths poked minor holes into the foggy heaven, but as quickly the holes repaired into thickness. I heard them breath. I heard the bikes whirr. I felt them spin past me and I felt space fill as I passed them.

RAGBRAI-- the raconteur's happy place.

Layer by layer the fog lifted as if God himself sipped from the mighty bucket. One hour. One day.

"May the road rise up to meet you," Dad recited each morning of last week. The Irish Blessing, a team mantra. The road rose.

"You must love hills," said one RAGBRAI teammate, "You really push those hills!"

"I'm desperate to get to the top," I said. "Don't exactly dig the hills."

Tires flattened, spokes broken, derailleurs busted, ankles cracked, elbows, knees and heads scraped and none left wanting even for a moment. Cyclists in blips and seconds moved from taming the road to soothing the sores and souls of the wounded.

"Do you need help?"

A man and his son stopped to assist my wife. Her tire blew.

"I don't know much about fixing things, but I can try to help," he said. "Do you need a tube? I've got one here."

"I think we'll be alright," I replied, "The fact that you stopped helps already."

He left. He even expressed regret that he couldn't help more than what he did.

"Did he really just offer us his gear?" I wondered.

We got as far as we could really, but I couldn't get the outer tire over the new tube we'd bought days before. A minute later another two guys stopped to help, guys who knew something. They gladly taught us how to roll the rubber over the tube and the rim. One of them even used his own CO2 capsule (not cheap) to fill her tire up to about ninety PSI, forty PSI short of full.

"Thank you so much," said Monique.

"Whatever we can do," he answered. "You sure you don't need anything else?"

"We're good," I said, "Thanks a million, man we're grateful." They left us shaking our heads again.

We were stuck there a bit longer. We'd called teammates and knew several of them had portable air-pumps. Two air-pump carrying teammates would arrive soon. Others rode by in the meantime and asked if we were ok.

Finally our two friends rode up and pulled over. We used his air pump and filled her tire to one-hundred and twenty PSI. I think our friend nearly burst a blood vessel airing her tire. Portables weren't exactly meant to push one-hundred and twenty PSI. Takes strength. Add vessel-bursting effort to a seventy-five mile ride. Says something about a man.

Then we continued our ride.

We blew three tires last week and have similar stories to tell about all of them. My spoke broke and while it was repaired I helped another woman make a decision about one of her own bike problems.

Nothing's paid forward, they're simply paid.

Jesus Christ knows something about that.

The day of the "picnic table incident" A woman flew head over apple-cart into the ditch and shot straight up to her feet like a canon ball, hands thrust upward like a gold-medal gymnast--a human cat with nine-lives. She didn't seem to even realize what happened. It all happened so fast. She made me giggle. No, she made me laugh. No one could believe they'd seen such a perfectly executed flip into the ditch--10.0 on my card. She'd ridden into a crack, lost her balance, hit another rider and took a flip-n-roll.

Several of us stopped to make sure she was alright and to re-tell the tale. Others, including my wife used our own bandages and salve to patch up the other rider, a 16 year old girl who was stunned and hurt, but able. The road scraped and bled her. No sooner though had we patched her up, put our arms around her and prayed our thank-you's that she rose up to the hill, hopped atop her bicycle and headed out, taking her worried mother in-tow. I understand the gritted journey.

An army of wheels and cyclists left no man behind.

Cyclists rode with radios attached to their bike. The classical guy, the metal guy, the folk guy, the German pub guy, the Christian Contemporary lady, the country girl, the rap couple--they were all there. We had so much fun on the route. One of them rode past Monique and a a catchy country song with lines like "God is great, beer is good and people are crazy" played on his radio. Maybe you had to hear the song to wrap your brain around where you were. Monique did. He was a fast rider but Monique yelled, "Hey sir, could you slow down because I love this song and I'm wondering if we can ride together until it's over?" The faster rider slowed and they enjoyed a great song before he rode off into the wind once again.

One minute, one hour, one day. If cyclists were lucky, they caught up to the guy in the banana suit or the asian dude in the bear suit. Maybe riders heard like I did, one of the twenty-four wiener balloons in one man's helmet pop and laughed. Maybe they found "Team Pie Hunter", a group of riders wearing helmets shaped like pieces of pie, or maybe riders rode with the couple dressed as clowns. Maybe they saw the ladies with colorful wigs and parrot beaks taped to their noses.

They might've pedaled around the young lady who rode a mountain bike and only seven gears through Iowa, and maybe they paired up with another who took her mountain bike through every mile possible. Maybe cyclists met the sixty-five year old man who recently completed a two-hundred mile tour...in one day, and that through Utah mountains. Maybe they saw the guy with a deformed leg, the oversized shoe turned outward and the large custom pedal made just for him, ride through the Iowa hills, smiling and pedaling. Maybe. Maybe they rode with the man who weighed over three-hundred pounds last year, but who trained six-hundred miles, lost a bunch of weight and hit the road. Maybe you rode with the sixty-two year old man who rode ten-thousand miles last year. Maybe bikers heard the mighty cry of the Marine team, "Hooahhh!"

Maybe they rode in line with dozens whom one by one assisted an old man with an extra handle on the side of his bike and a sign on his back that read something like, "Help me up the hill please?" New strangers-turned-friends formed behind him day in and day out, but the line remained. Each rider took hold of the handle and rose to the hills with him a couple hundred feet before drifting off to the back of the line, allowing another rider to take their place another couple hundred feet. Maybe riders saw their privilege.

Maybe it takes might and vulnerability to be the best.

Maybe cyclists rode with the woman who only two years ago had not picked up a bike in twenty years, but whom this year decided she could do the optional one-hundred miles on day five.

My wife rolled into camp 107.6 miles later.

Maybe. Maybe they rode with the man with Spina Bifida whose doctors couldn't have dreamed he'd walk let alone ride his bicycle over almost twenty-four thousand feet of hills in one week.

We all rode with the thousands in the rain. Bikers stopped with hundreds at a warm church to take some coffee and sugar and an excellent breakfast. Maybe they were there when the church lady opened an oven so that cold, wet hands could warm. Maybe they were one of the many awed by the generosity of the janitor who would clean up the next day. Maybe the same home-owner opened his garage to others as he did for my wife and some teammates so they could again escape the rain and warm up.

Maybe. Maybe their support crew humbly, joyfully and unabashedly kept them in tip-top shape. And maybe their support blessed them as ours did us before we left in the morning.

I saw him the next day, I did. Deep, white side-burns defied a feeble cover for the giant inside--a silhouette of other days--the good 'ol days whether they were or not. Bony knees shook as small feet and small stature clipped in. His bicycle swayed left and right as balance eluded him for three seconds. Then there he was, all 84 years of him headed out of another town, down another road. I remembered the coffee stains and the judgement and I rode behind him for a minute, hardly daring to pass such a hallowed road bull headed away from pasture. He's now held together by patience and the wisdom of the journey.

I'm a young bull. I will rise and meet the road that rises with me. But my nostrils flare by the example of the mighty and the unafraid who's courage ne'er wanes and who's life remains unfeigned.

Whether they rode last week with balloons in their helmets, or rolled with the hearts of hosts of angels, they revealed the wisdom of our years, the tenacity of spirit, the practicality of skill, the happiness of laughter, the satisfaction of effort, and enabled the vulnerability of joy.

And even when they whispered, I engaged in and witnessed a tour of triumph.

Ready to Ride--But not in the rain?

2009-07-21T20:10:00.006-05:00

"How you doin'?", I asked my wife Monique.

"My legs hurt, but I feel great," she replied.

"Me too," I said. "Only a handful of us believe it's possible to get it done."

"I don't mind being part of the handful really," she said. "But riding in rain, I just can't do it. Too dangerous." Pause. "No way I'm goin' out in the rain. You can't make me," she continued. Then an afterthought, "Impossible."

Today she rode in the rain.

The posts are few and far between--I'm off on the nearly 500 mile bicycle ride across Iowa this week. Sounds kinda crazy, I know. People have called me crazy for years and I figured it was time to walk the talk. However, one gentleman is roller blading across Iowa, another is riding his Unicycle. One woman is riding with one wooden leg and another with only one arm. An 81 year old man is riding this week with only one gear, my wife rode in the rain, and the rest of us are riding with one big pile of guts, fear, pain, joy, pride and satisfaction. One man, Wes, rode the first three days...the first after discovering his nephew was killed in a motorcycle accident. He leaves for the funeral tomorrow morning. We've all got stories. Between my wife and I, we've popped two tires and broke a spoke. In all that I've told my story at least once already, and to a perfectly random stranger who overheard a conversation.

We're all a little crazy I suppose. But I'm off on another day of doing the impossible and that feels quite normal. All the days are them that the Lord has made and the lot of us wake up to see as much of it as possible.