Dang Near a Post

A good friend has been checking on me the last couple of days via emails... my last reply was lengthy enough I thought I'd add a couple of pictures and call it a post. So... If you don't mind dropping into the middle of a conversation...

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...True.

Just finished cleaning up after dinner. I made a traditional big meal... rolls, turkey, mashed taters, pie... the works.

Isaac's a lot like me... he wanted a photo of the Greenleaf Men's Christmas Dinner!)

And now the kitchen is clean.

A proper metaphor does not come to mind, but there is something about her... at some point when she visits with the boys we stop and talk, and the regret she feels, the emotional storm that swirls around her, and there is something.... body language, a look in the eyes, the tenor of her voice, and we seem to be flowing into strange roles... like some Shakespearean tragedy...

Star-crossed love or such nonsense...

That is how it feels...

I can almost sense that these emotionally charged moments are the reverse of what she was doing with John... when they had to part and she come home to me... a soap operish melodrama... there must have hung in the air the horrid unfairness of life that we can't have our cake... pretty on the table... and eat it as well. That the sorrows of our hurts will shape our lives forever.

It's true, and it's crap.

She had bad things happen to her. I've had bad things happen to me. Bad things have happened to us and our kids.

It does not let us off the hook in terms of our integrity and character.

So she slips and slides along a path slick with her failures, and I am sitting on a rock letting it all wash away.

Enough.

Today was a strange Christmas for all of us.

I was up late wrapping presents, wiping and resetting my old computer to give to Isaac (I thought it hilarious I felt the need to record the event, so I made sure I included this absurd guy in the mirror). And yeah... that is three Apple computers you see there. I know, I know... But you may have learned, being an Apple user is the geek world's version of a cult (I know the secret handshake and have the white robe!). If that isn't PC enough for you, deal with it.

We filled in for her in the customary roles dictated by our traditions, and I spent a good deal of time showing Jeremiah how to cook.


It was a good meal. It was a good day.

The boys loved their gifts. Isaac finally got a computer of his own, and Jeremiah got an RC Mustang. Vrooom vrooom!

The boys have never had jacks before.

Hmmmm... this is dang near a post rather than an email.

I might as well toss it onto The Journey and throw in some pictures.

Merry Christmas, Sis!

Isaac wanted me to post for posterity the cleanest his room has ever been (Dad helped!)

PIcture Perfect Post

I haven't written anything... but I've had folks ask for pics of the recent snow, and the prayer picture I did for the Christmas service. So here are some recent photos...

The boys and I played in the snow...

Their snowman is taller than mine!
(Click to enlarge)

As usual, I couldn't be satisfied with a regular snowman

We decided to change the floor plan of the kit!

Icing & candy

Finished! Grandma (Brenda's mom) watched.

Ta da!

I was asked if I would do a picture during the Sunday service... the one just before Christmas day. So, I tuned everything out... and wrote out the prayers and scriptures which came to mind, switching colors as I went so it formed an image.

Isaac brought his trusty camera...

Praying

Finished picture

A detail

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A storm was predicted, so I took the boys around the house, showing them the sorts of things that should be done to prepare for cold weather.

Dad made a hearty breakfast.

I showed the boys how to set a faucet dripping just enough to keep the pipe from freezing.

I showed the boys how to shut off the water in case water pipes break.

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When it snows in the night... it is my custom to take advantage of that special time for prayer in Molalla River State Park. It did... and I was there a couple of hours before dawn. It also was Winter Solstice. It was a special time... Solitude, fresh snow hid the ground, the moon glided overhead...

A half moon accompanied...

Coyote, deer, and vole tracks

The lights from Wilsonville light up the Willamette River.

Sometime during the last half hour it has become day. Here are the solitary tracks I left two and a half hours earlier.

By the ponds.
We got some more snow today!

Wait Park is the heart of our town. Looks nice with its snowy cloak.

This was just taken in the last few minutes... It's a touch more snow that the Willamette Valley usually gets!

Quondo Omni Flunkus Moritati

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
Will Shakespeare
As You Like it 2/7

The world may be a stage, but the grips keep changing the set and the writers keep changing the lines.

It would be easy to see the failure of my marriage from a single cause... it was her fault, it was my fault, it was the fire, it was Willy’s death... In truth, it was many things.

It serves no purpose for me to think about her failures, unless to make myself feel a little better. It would do no good to tell her where she failed. If she does not know, telling her will probably not serve to enlighten, only exacerbate.

I try to be honest. It isn’t an easy task. I play my roles... father, teacher, friend, Christ Follower... husband.

Too often the role becomes more important than it should. I want the role I play be perfect, and if I do not meet the full demands of the role, I pretend I did.

Ah... that is where it gets tricky. In pretending I am playing my role well, I can begin to believe my own minor fantasy.

When I married I knew it to be forever. I knew I would grow old with her... walk all my days with her beside me. I would care for her no matter how ill she might become, how poor we might become.

I knew it.

I believed my own fantasy.

That fantasy is special. I have many friends living that fantasy.

So... this change in my life is a benefit for others, isn’t it? My divorce is one more failed marriage among so many... and in so many broken vows, doesn’t that make the success of my friends all the more special?

I've written that life is about experience, events we absorb into our spirits, carrying them in tiny buckets to the stream of eternity.

In the ‘50s it seemed men were kings. I’m sure that wasn’t true... the depiction of fathers and husbands in Ozzie and Harriet, Leave it to Beaver, Father Knows Best, even Bonanza showed men as compassionate, wise, strong. I know men were never so good.

The Bible depicts men as highly important. Typical of a patriarchal society.

It explores the roles of men, admonishes them to care for their wives, to be faithful, to be fair.

In modern times much of the depiction of men, fathers, husbands, certainly young single men, consists of showing them as fools, crass self-centered buffoons. Gulls and gullible.

I like this amusing take on it from Possum Lodge:

Dear Lord...

We’re men...

And we’re sorry...

And we’ll change...

If we have to...

I guess.

Amen.

Sometime between the arrival of feminism and the strenuous societal embrace for an all encompassing political correctness, the role of men has become a confusing thing.

It occurs to me that in playing my roles upon the shifting stages of my life I have had trouble seeing myself behind the actor.

What if I disagree with Will Shakespeare and deny I have any roles to play whatsoever?

What if instead of doing my best to be a father, a Christ-follower, friend, teacher... husband... I refuse all the roles?

What if I am simply me?

Instead of roles... I have tasks. It does not matter how well I perform my role. What matters is being true to myself (and in doing so, true to who He made me be, would have me do).

About a year ago, once again walking in that large empty park I am so fond of, I felt those words ring through my heart... “Be true.”

That is all I need do.

All I need is to do my best at being who He made me to be.

Be true.

Spiritually Left Handed... or... How to Use the Razor's Edge

My brother David is left handed.

That didn’t mean anything to me until I was a teen.

It was when I started really reading. I read The Razor's Edge.

Dad was a little demanding. We were frequently placed in the seat of a piece of heavy equipment.

While learning to be an operator David told me why the controls of most machines were awkward for him to control.

Watching him not only operate better than I, but with everything backward, well, it impressed me. Enlightening.

For him, the world seemed to not quite fit.

I felt that.

When I sat on a loader, I pulled that lever, and the bucket raised swiftly in the air, stopping almost where it should. I did better on a grader, but I never learned to run equipment the way my dad and brothers did.

My brother Michael makes any machine look like a living thing... dexterous and powerful... My use of the equipment is functional.

They liked things I didn't, spoke of things I had no interest in...

I like reading.

I like art.

I’m not into sports.

I’m not into getting drunk, womanizing.

I went to college.

I go to church.

I’m not sure why I am so different.

My father told his friends I was gay, and though I’m not, that statement has been ringing in the air ever since.

I am a little different. I don’t know why I feel the way I do.

When I’m at church... I feel different. I feel more unlike my father and brothers than at any other time.

Maybe I’m sentimental. Or just mental.

This past year was hard for me. I loved deeply, I forgave to the point of masochism, and I let my heart guide me more than ever.

I think I might be emotionally left handed.

I choke up for the National Anthem. I choke up when I think of my kids. I choke up when I think of Willy, or Brenda... or Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, galactic superclusters, rainbows, the Yosemite Valley, the Eagle Nebula, or worship.

My friend and pastor joked this morning he was canceling the service. He got a rise out of the Worship Team who has practiced for hours and hours. His follow up joke was he was only canceling the sermon.

“Yeah!!!” I shouted. “Let’s do worship TWICE!!!” I high fived the team leader.

Friend/pastor winced and laughed.

The fifteen or twenty minutes of worship on Sunday is my favorite time of the week (though, today’s sermon was exceptionally good... memorable).

I don’t mean I simply like live music.

Worship is serious.

I understand why folks are atheistic or agnostic. (Though I think they don’t always understand what those words really mean, they are giving them a different meaning.)

From a strictly scientific perspective God seems a little hard to imagine. The Occam’s Razor approach to interacting with the universe is logical and comforting.


I love science. I really love science.

I love science because it shows me the most beautiful things and I love beauty.

Not all scientists are atheists or agnostics or any of the other forms of disbelief in things eternal or spiritual. Many do a very simple test to discover if He is real.

I love worship because I love God. I love God because I have no choice.

Believing in God is not like believing in Santa Clause or the Tooth Fairy.

In measuring the universe, we lay out stars, and The Milky Way, and galaxies... with degrees and light years and parsecs and astronomical units.

God isn’t measured that way.

It is difficult for those who approach life slicing at every idea with that monk’s razor to accept the concept of divinity.

The problem is their approach.

It isn’t about finding proof He exists.

It is about having a relationship with Him.

Hey... the universe consists of at least 12 dimensions. If God exists, then He exists in ways we cannot see.

Fortunately, it doesn't matter we are incapable of perceiving most of who and what He is. He happens to be extremely interested in us.

Weird.

Hard to believe.

But true.

Proof?

It is so easy... so simple... simply hard to believe.

All we have to do is talk to Him!

That is it. He wants to talk to us!

It feels a little awkward at first. It is hard to hear Him over our own preconceptions, our own internal dialogue.

But... this is as true as any hair split by that fine blade of Brother Ockham’s.

God is real.

Perhaps I think this way because I have been wired to think this way. Perhaps I’m just one of those overly sentimental types and I see things that may not be there.

But...

God is real.

I know it with every thread of who I am... I am woven of the fabric of DNA and the four forces of physics and a universal force not yet recognized by science... a force that might be described as “love” (it's probably as accurate as any other term).

I know God is real.

I have a relationship with Him.

That’s the point of this little excursion, this post, into the spiritually odd. I sometimes feel I am emotionally left handed. I wonder if I am spiritually left handed as well.

But, if someone does not believe in God, I have a simple way to prove it.

Put down the tools of science.

Open your heart.

Talk.

He will listen.

And it won’t be long before you know it to be true.

That is the reason I love worship.

To me, if I don’t tremble at the thought of who we dedicate our worship to... then I’m not being clear about what I am doing.

The universe is extremely large. It is at least 26 billion light years across. It is made up objects celestial and objects terrestrial. Made up.

The universe is a made thing.

When I worship on Sunday morns, I am honored and blessed to feel the eye of God fall on me. And frankly, a little scared.

If someone is unsure about the existence of God, the revelation of the truth is easy. Just talk to Him. He wants to listen.

That is a test that will cut to the truth.

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Some Photo Updates

Jeremiah... drumming "The Little Drummer Boy" during service this morning. (His dad gave him the haircut.)

First Snow of the Year this Morning!

Someone emailed, requesting an update on Prayer Room art. Here you go...
Starting with a picture of an ordinary man... a carpenter who worked on things for His neighbors... before He started His final mortal profession.

The shirt is the first four chapters of the book of John.

Four nails in the pocket. Hands and feet.

On the end of the mallet are the Greek letters Alpha and Omega.

No tracks in the snow... Our church looked beautiful this morning. Each of those jogs in the face of that building are echoes of changes and additions to the original church which burned down over three years ago.

In the Prayer Room is a cross. I wanted to copy some scriptures about the cross around it, as you can see...

A one hour prayer

Digital Journal

I write these little posts... spinning out vignettes from my life... A weird journal somewhere between private diary and shameless exhibitionist... I can’t seem to help myself.

This whole mess with Brenda... it has hurt... it hurts me. It hurts my kids... It hurts her.

But life goes on.

My psoriasis has kicked up. When I grip a doorknob, or microphone, or camera, I leave little specks of blood. A faux stigmata in my palm when I spread my fingers to pick up something.


Whatever.

I gave Jeremiah a haircut tonight... he really doesn’t wash his hair properly. I shampooed him to show him once again how he needs to get his scalp clean. He did OK on shaving tonight.

Brenda was with the boys today. I took my Lego Robotics team to the regional tournament today.

Lego provides a system that includes a small processor in a Lego “brick” allowing students to write programs so the brightly colored machines scamper about a challenge board completing various missions around some theme... This year it’s about climate change.

I have been working with a group of students for three months... coaching them to work as a team... problem solve... engineering, programming...

I had to cut a couple of kids from the team. They were domineering, self-centered...

But without those two the team was cohesive... a group... friends... listening and helping each other.

Today was the regional tournament.

It’s a new team. All but one are sixth graders. They are cute. Not that mature... unable to do much in the way of sophisticated programming. But they are friends. They listen to each other. I insist on it.

They were so cute. All day... so cute. Helping each other... being twelve.

There was a strange incident at the beginning of the day. There are four tasks the team “Dark Moon” had to do today, a teamwork challenge, a presentation on climate change, an examination of their engineering and programming, and the robot missions... three tries at the mission challenge board... watching their robot scamper about, solving problems under the guidance of programs they wrote.

Their first time up at the challenge table I brought a video camera to record the event. We will go over the video next week. The video will help us analyze what worked, what didn’t.

Picking a spot to video tape is tricky. I have to be out of the way of the judges, the two teams, the referees, and the video camera projecting the competition onto a large screen.

I asked a judge if it would be alright if I stood in a particular spot to video tape my team.

“Sure that would be fine. Go ahead.”

I went and stood in the spot. There was a sign on the floor about not blocking the tables. I was unsure if it meant that I shouldn’t stand between the signs and the table, or shouldn’t stand on that side of the tables at all.

There were two referees on the other side of the gym. I asked them. They said that it was fine to tape from there.

The competition began. My students nervously stood by their base at the board... The large clock clicked on the seconds. Two minutes and thirty seconds.

“Hey, get out of the way!!!”

An elderly gentleman was shouting at me. He was right behind me, sitting on the bleachers. I winced. His angry shout would be heard on the tape I wanted to review again and again with my roboticists.

He never stopped. Throughout the two and a half minutes he continued to shout at me... he was joined by others who felt I didn’t have permission to stand beside my team and video tape them.

The time was up... I moved away... or tried to. I was suddenly surrounded by angry adults. One grabbed me by the elbow, spun me around. A surprisingly large man.

He was shouting profanities, yelling about how I blocked the view of his father... a problem that could have been solved had the man slid two feet on the bench.

"Please keep your voice down," I said. "I don't want my students to hear you."

A woman slapped me a couple of times on my arm...

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” she shouted. “You had no right to stand in front of us!”

Someone shoved me from behind. I was surrounded by four angry adults... shouting.

It was unnerving.

They stormed off.

The wife of the large man slid up to me.

"I'm sorry," she said. "My husband should not have talked to you that way."

The angry adults, unable to take their anger to a more physical level, went in search of tournament officials. Officials who found me later to reassure me, apologize to me for my embarrassment.

The rest of the day went well.

The students weren’t perfect. Each of their presentations, examinations, and challenges were OK, even great, but certainly not perfect.

Still, I was proud of my students.

They may not have been perfect, but they were excited and having fun. They cared for each other. They were friends, and their friendliness spread around them... they helped everyone they met.

It was just a regional tournament. And these kids are a team for the first time. Their programming is clumsy, their engineering basic. But they did not dominate each other. They worked together at everything. It may not have been perfect, but it was together.

It almost wasn’t that way. Two students... two students who I told could not make the team. They were too domineering... not caring about others enough. I pointed out each time they had dominated the team, hurting others, and asked them to move to another activity.

So today they were a team without a domineering member.

The award ceremony was fun. The kids were called down with all the other kids, given their token ribbons. My kids had a great time.


We applauded all the other awards. Politely, even a little enthusiastically.

The first five awards were for recognition of top teams in engineering, teamwork, all sorts of categories. We didn’t get any.

That’s OK. We didn’t expect an award. We just went to have fun.

The ceremony went on to the higher level awards. Ones that would lead to invitations to go to the state tournament.

Imagine our surprise when we received the award for the runner up to the top prize, the tournament champion award.

WE RECEIVED SECOND PLACE OUT OF THE ENTIRE TOURNAMENT!!! WE ARE GOING TO STATE!!!!

My team marched across the stage, got their trophy... I was nearby... taking pictures. I was so proud of those kids!

After snapping their pictures I rushed the stage and threw out my arms.

“I’M SO PROUD OF YOU!!!” I shouted.

All those great kids lept into my arms. I hugged them all. It was so very cool.


I came home. Brenda arrived with the boys a few minutes later.

She is feeling deep regret over her actions. I can read her moods... she is falling into a deep pit of sorrow. I teared up when I gave her hug. A gesture of love, forgiveness, and a statement that it is simply too late.

Never before in the history of mankind could a journal be so public. I love jotting down my thoughts... and it helps knowing someone hears, following my journey.

I gave Jeremiah a haircut...


My kids and I just finished watching It’s a Wonderful Life... a Christmas classic.

They didn’t think they would like it. But... they did.

Tomorrow we go to church early. Jeremiah is drumming during the service. Isaac is ushering. My boss, a non-christian, said he might be there with his family

Another digital chapter.

My Kids

Having a family was always something I wanted.

I wanted to do it better than my parents... who split up when I was in 2nd grade, and went through three years of an on and off again relationship before divorcing.

I wasn’t prepared for adulthood. There aren’t good reasons for it... I was simply immature and irresponsible.

Of course... I didn’t have an example to go by... but... vagabonding and meditating and reading and exploring were the things I did instead of learning to hold a job, pay bills, share my life.

We couldn’t have biological children. I accepted that.

Now my family is much different than I thought it would be. Children adopted... both with disabilities... wife gone...

Yet...

Everyday I find I love my children more than I thought I would.

That sounds weird.

What I mean is that my feelings for my children are deeper than I imagined. They mean so much to me.

I think all parents understand that. Our children become so important to us. Our children warm our hearts, make us feel emotions we didn’t know we had.

Jeremiah is drumming during worship on Sunday.

I was a little embarrassed and a little amused when the worship team drummer asked him “Did you practice this week?”

“Kinda.”

I heard him practice... but apparently what I thought he was doing wasn’t as focused as he knows it should have been.

Still, it warmed my heart to see him on that stage, concentrating on the rhythm of “Little Drummer Boy.”


My children are not going to college. They aren’t going to be deep thinkers... no philosophy, no scientific revelations, no awards in literature.

But my children are wonderful.

We got a Christmas tree last night.

They enthusiastically decorated it.

A tree inside a pumpkin

There's the smile I was looking for!

They are having a rough time. I worry about their emotions.

I am concerned about all the things which flow naturally from loving deeply.

I am richly blessed.

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See comments to understand picture

Zig Zag

What would you say if someone told you that all your money concerns could go away?

What would you think if you were told that it would not take much effort and it would happen in just a few months?

What would you feel?

Skepticism, of course.

But say there were sound ideas behind it... Say that there were some very reputable companies endorsing... Say there were people who are very wealthy, very clever, very good with money, who were doing a lot to promote this idea...

I was thinking yesterday about refinancing my home so I could get $10,000 or so to provide a sprinkler system in a group home so my son, Jeremiah, would be accepted into a place that would give him security, comfort, a place free of concerns and worry.

I went to a meeting last night to hear a business proposal.

I am suspicious and skeptical, cynical and circumspect.

Still, it makes sense.

What if I could have those things that others have... the new car, the large house, money to fly to Aruba, scuba dive the great barrier reef, buy art.

My car would smell nice... clean, new.

The house would be decorated, fabrics and colors and doodads and tchotchkes all purchased and set in place by someone who knew what shapes and colors and textures work well together.

When I think of living that sort of life, as comfortable as it sounds, unease rises...

In 1972 and 1973 I was a part of “The Jesus Movement.” I was a Jesus freak.

I “witnessed” constantly, my naivete’ driven by internal passions I didn’t understand, a spiritual dimension to who I was that needed release I found in the clumsy asocial actions of a teenager.

There was a man in Costa Mesa. He drove a beat up green Datsun pick up. His living room was filled with old bread and blemished produce gathered from grocers. He fed the poor. His small kitchen had a tiny refrigerator beside a tiny stove beside a cot that served him for a bed.

The rest of the house was walled off and rented out to a dress maker.

Brother Michael had cataracts fogging his gentle eyes.

I went on to other things.... Yoga, hitchhiking, being a milkman... About fifteen years later I read about Brother Michael in the Orange County Register.

He had been wealthy. Owned strip malls, apartments, hotels.

He

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Moving on... I’m changing topics, but leaving the above fragment of a post... I know I will never get back to finishing it, and this time I'm just going to leave it here.

Last night I was offered what sounds like a very good financial opportunity. It makes sense. The posh homes, new cars... even celebrities lined up to help...

That isn’t me...

I will probably always be a little tight on $. Hey... that’s what He wants, so I’m not interested in having a little more stuff that owns me.

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Brenda sent a text yesterday. Jeremiah has been leaving messages at the center where he spends Mondays with other handicapped adults. He said he was sad. He said he has lost his mom. He said he has lost his dog. He said he lost his cousin. He lost his dad.

It didn’t make sense, but Jeremiah has trouble expressing himself. I know he has a lot going on inside and I need to help guide him through this tough time.

I exchanged a number of emails regarding group homes for Jeremiah. All the group homes contacted so far are wary of the legal responsibilities in taking in a resident who has set a fire.

He needs much.

If he does not begin drawing on the funds set aside to help someone in his position by June, the money goes away for ever.

He could have a safe life.

He misses Rocky. I do too. I still get up in the middle of the night, and walking into the living room I expect to hear that silly dog's tail thumping.

Jeremiah has had some very hard things happen in his life. Aside from the problems with his mind, his knees are malformed, his feet have been beaten and broken, his head has bumps and dents.

I showed him how to bathe 15 years ago.

I’ve left him alone since.

Tonight I went in to the bathroom, he was in the tub. I took out the hair clippers.

The buzz always makes him uncomfortable, so I moved slowly and gently.

He doesn’t particularly like a haircut... so I just gently trimmed around his face, cutting the hair away to make a nice shape.

He simply won’t shave.

I slowly moved the shears all over his face, trimming his nearly invisible beard close to his skin.

I lathered his face. Shaved him.

I could see how he was judging how close I pressed the blade, how I moved in this direction here, that direction there.

I’ve reminded him often about washing his back. I bought him a back scrubber long ago, but I don’t think he uses it.

I washed his back, his shoulders.

I love Jeremiah.

I’m not sure what it is like for him... the way he sees the world.

I know he has many emotions. They roll around in his heart, and he has trouble expressing them.

I couldn’t seem to fall asleep last night. The clock said it was after midnight the last time I looked. I was up when I thought it was time... and got out of the shower to see it was 4:30.

My children are handicapped and ...

Ah... I don’t know what I’m saying.

I’ve written about my faith quite a bit. But I don’t think I am really that spiritual.

Isn’t that odd?

I believe I am essentially spirit. I believe I am truly much more than can be expressed in human form. When I take on the rest of me that cannot blossom here...

Someday Jeremiah will shed this body of his that was beaten and starved. Someday Jeremiah will have all his intellect, all his heart, all his feelings, all that is his beyond what can be sensed now. His eternal self.

I would like to be more faithful.

I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m just running down a forest path... the trees and ferns make me zig, zag... I can't see around the bend in the wooded trails. I don’t know what my future is. I don’t know what I can do for Jeremiah.

But I know I love him. I want him to have a good life.

He would be happiest if he had his own life.

How do I finish this parenting job?

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Sorry about the twists and turns of this post... not really much a cohesive point.

I need to get some sleep.

First... I need to go talk to Jeremiah.

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I just had a wonderful conversation with Jeremiah about all sorts of things.

At the end of it I asked him what he thought of me.

He said: "You are nice. You work hard. You dress nice."

That's funny.

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The thrill is gone
The thrill is gone away
The thrill is gone baby
The thrill is gone away
You know you done me wrong baby
And you'll be sorry someday

The thrill is gone
It's gone away from me
The thrill is gone baby
The thrill is gone away from me
Although I'll still live on
But so lonely I'll be

The thrill is gone
It's gone away for good
Oh, the thrill is gone baby
Baby its gone away for good
Someday I know I'll be over it all baby
Just like I know a man should

You know I'm free, free now baby
I'm free from your spell
I'm free, free now
I'm free from your spell
And now that it's over
All I can do is wish you well

Engines

I know there are good women out there.

I see many women in my church who are the sort of woman I wish my wife had been.

I just don’t trust my judgment in such things.

Ah... I don’t want to talk about it. Not interested in another woman.

I guess I’m feeling a little anxious.

I was told today that all the group homes we have been contacting, in hopes of finding a place for Jeremiah, don’t want him because of the fire. There are liability and insurance concerns because of that fire that began in that corner of our church three years ago.

I’m concerned that if I don’t find him a place to live by June, well, the funds that would support him will disappear. I love him. I want to be a part of his life for as long as I’m on the planet, but he should have something stable... something that would keep him safe, and fed, and loved.

Isaac fixed dinner tonight. I have been teaching him how to make meatloaf. This was his third time at it, and he did nearly everything on his own. Nearly no supervision from me.

It’s December. I should be putting up Christmas lights, a Christmas tree, making this particular Christmas particularly special.

The boys need it, and frankly I do too.

I suppose I am beginning to run out of steam.

Hmmmm... odd phrase. “Running out of steam.”

Obviously from the time when steam engines powered everything from trains and tractors to trolleys and factories. The fires had to be stoked continually for the heat to pressurize the boilers. And they were dangerous.

Those boilers blew up all the time. Hammered metal, overlapped and riveted...

More people died on the Sultana than on the Titanic. The steamship had a legal capacity of 376 people, but held over 2,000, mostly Union soldiers returning from Confederate prison camps.


Sheesh... where am I going with this?

I guess I was thinking that I have been pushing myself to do all the things that Brenda and I did to make this house run... all on my own, and the fuel which powered me was mostly the fire of my passions and emotions from the conflagration of my marriage.

Tonight I feel tired.

I just got home from another meeting. I got to work about 6:00 this morning, worked until 4:00. Meeting at 7:00, after raking the leaves in the yard, and doing laundry.

The metaphor of the steam engine is apt. I heap on the things that keep me going, skipping meals, joking with coworkers, stoking the passion of my profession...

But, an external combustion engine was a crude device, not very reliable.

Internal combustion engines work better. The fuel is injected right beside the pistons, right where the work needs to be done, right where the force is most efficient.

I have an internal combustion component in my life. A more efficient engine I don't use enough.

It is so easy to think I am running my life. That I am doing it all. That finding a home for Jeremiah is my job. Feeding my children, keeping the house clean and the bills paid are mine alone...

But, I know, I really know, that in relying upon myself I face almost certain burnout.

Last Friday was our monthly 24 hours of prayer.

My hour went by swiftly, as it always does. I left that room with more energy than when I entered.

One week from today will be the 16th anniversary of Willy’s death.

Can it have been so long already? Can it be that the hurt of that passing still smolders?

I suppose it is the new hurt of losing my wife that makes me a little more melancholy this year. (All the more reason I should make this Christmas special.)

Or... it is the months and months and months of getting less than six hours sleep each night that is finally collecting its long delayed toll?

I wish I were a better man.

I wish I had given her all she needed... emotionally, spiritually, sexually.

Still, she made her mistakes, mistakes that are not mine, I cannot take ownership for them. She lacked integrity in areas that really mattered, and she spent the trust given to her in ways that will make it impossible for her to ever truly trust herself. That is a large price for her to pay.

Back to the engine metaphors... External combustion works by placing heat alongside a water-filled chamber... a crude method for transfering energy.

I know that if I relax into the arms of the divine I will find resources which exceed any fuel I can find on my own. I know that in the power of joy, the power of love, the power of trust in what is intrinsically good, far beyond the apparent good I thought was true, I can run on that internal combustion for all my life.

“Let go, and let God.” It’s one of those trite sayings of AA and Al Anon. And like most trite sayings, it conveys a simple truth.

Let go...

I should let go...

Let go of disappointment... let go of trying to do more than I can... let go of guilt and shame and all the inefficient mechanisms which have powered my life.

I’m 52. It doesn’t matter if I find a home for Jeremiah, or catch up on my bills, or find a partner I can trust.

What matters is that I love God... He loves me... and I am His.

What matters is that I just keep doing the next right thing.

What matters is that I trust.

I cannot trust in people. They are too frail... their own external combustion engines also have the same sort of makeshift repairs on their boilers as mine... and it is those self repairs that are so dangerous.

Just as the thin piece of steel slapped on that boiler in 1865 shoved over 1800 people into eternity, my own self psychoanalysis is an inefficient repair on an inefficient engine that cannot power me all the way up the river of my life.

I need to rely on the power of that is beyond the entropic forces of this universe.

What drivel...

I don’t know what I am saying anymore...

I’m tired.

I’m going to bed.

A Few Thoughts

So many of my posts seem to be about something. There is a point I am making, or a problem to be solved, or it's about confusion, sorrow, jealousy, shame, guilt... some underlying purpose to the writing.

There isn’t any point today... Just jotting down a few thoughts.

I agreed to do another picture during a church service. I’ve done acrylics... they take too long. The colors are harder to control in the changing lighting, and the concentration needed is greater. I’m going with Sharpies in a myriad of colors.

It is difficult to concentrate on a stage.

The whole idea is a little strange I guess. During important services at church, when there are a lot of folks in attendance, we pull out all the stops (pun intended).


I think it a little strange because I’m unsure how I should feel about it.

I suppose people like watching me produce a picture during a service... it illustrates the message.


I suppose I would find it interesting to watch some guy do a picture.


The most difficult thing is to mentally drop all my surroundings... just focus enough on prayer, concentrate on what I have to say to God, and pray it.

I start by singing along with the worship team. I’m not too worried about others when I worship... and so it is a relief to sing and let my prayers flow into a picture.

But when the singing stops... There will be people stepping up to say things, make announcements... and the sermon. I need to shut all of that out... take the prayers of worship, and rather than letting them dial down, I need to dial it up... pray earnestly, joyfully... quickly let the surroundings drop completely away. Just me, God, my prayers, and the colors flowing through pens into some shape echoing my heart.

When distraction breaks through, I need to quickly marshal my thoughts.

I will probably use the iPod. Bach or worship songs or Christmas music. Perhaps a mix for the occasion.

Then there is the image itself.

I wrote the other day about the two advents. The advent for the birth of Jesus, and the advent of the Return of the Christ. That's this year's Christmas image... the advents.

The Nativity and the Second Coming.

God in mortal form. God in as much glory and power and beauty and love and the fullness of existence inclusive of dimensional we cannot sense.

Comfort and familiarity, and terrible beauty.

An impossible image.

I suppose it doesn’t matter what I do.

Worship every Sunday is my favorite twenty minutes of the week. This will be an opportunity to let worship flow through me for over an hour.

That will be cool.

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Tomorrow, Saturday, I am opening the computer lab from 8:00 a.m. to 12:00 for my robitics team. It’s a new, young team. The kids I have had over the last few years all moved on to high school. These kids are almost all sixth graders (one 7th).

They aren’t ready for the tournament a week from tomorrow, though they think they are.

They will be next year.

I’m going to run an after school robotics club all year with these kids. They will be a good team in a year. I’ll recruit a couple of 6th graders next year to keep new kids rolling in... I hope to build up a good team.

These are good kids. One of them is very bright.

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I decided to go to the staff Christmas party. A few years ago, well, seven years ago, my boss made a number of jokes at my expense. A few of my colleagues were drawn in on the fun... ingratiating themselves with the new boss (they no longer work in the same building as I).

I haven’t gone to another staff get together since.

I told myself that in my current circumstances I wouldn’t be much fun, a wet blanket.

I told myself I'm not really wanted.

I told myself that since it’s the anniversary of Willy’s death I should’t go.

Weak arguments. Excuses.

Yesterday evening I suddenly became a little blue. It washed over me about 5:00 p.m. and lasted until I fell asleep. It echoed in my heart this morning.

I had talked with Brenda earlier (she’s taking the boys somewhere tomorrow). When she was here the other day I was taciturn. When I spoke to her I told her I had been pissed.

That’s how it has been lately. I feel prayerful and sad. I feel angry and apathetic. I feel paternal and pleased at being single. These aren’t wild mood swings. They are the slower swings of a large pendulum.

I resisted the impulse to take a Xanax or two.

I need to inject myself into the world. I need to go to that Christmas dinner.

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I want to contact my dad about the trip to Thailand this summer. I am excited about the idea, think of it often, but I’ve been busy. House cleaning, laundry, meals, work... I need to pencil in some time for pleasant anticipation.

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Still sleeping less than six hours. I wonder if I have settled into a new type of sleep cycle.

I’ve put a little weight back on. That is a good sign, emotionally... I need to work on healthy eating now... Emotional weight loss has stopped. Now I can begin to think about good eating habits.

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I’ve been thinking about that book quite a bit. I’m not sure why anyone would care to read it, but that doesn't matter. I want to write it because I want to understand myself.

That year, 1961... so many events happened which shaped my life. And, in looking at those unlikely series of events, I realize not only a lot of odd things happened in my life, but there were patterns in them. In certain years much happened. A confluence.

Other years... the quirks of circumstances and the quirks of my nature, prepared for the unusual years. 1961. 1976. 1992. 2008.

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I’ve been thinking about my weaknesses.

That I could be so wrong about Brenda does not speak well of me. Yes, I loved her. I did not see her with open eyes. And not just the flaws of her character. I also missed her wants and needs. I missed connecting to her in ways that not only would have helped her, helped our marriage, but what a husband should be, should do, what God wants of us. Of me.

I must be pretty self centered.

Human nature... but... I can do better.

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Teaching went really well this week.

Once in a while lessons come together, really come together, and kids walk away with lit light bulbs floating over their heads. It is a good feeling when things click.

That happened quite a bit this week.

It's another sign I am getting my feet under me, despite the evidence of the emotional pendulum.

It’s 9:30. I think I’ll go to bed.