Something is different.
Not with my home or work. Well, work may be a little better. I am getting better at separating the turmoil in my heart from the focus I need to do my job well. As for home, I have no clue if Brenda is keeping her word and not seeing this other man with questionable integrity.
The difference is in my spiritual life, specifically, my prayer life.
My prayer life used to be rich, complex. It included singing and worship and art and long quiet walks.
Then things got rough. About as rough as they did 15 years ago when I had another trauma to my spirit.
With the events of the last few months my prayers went through changes, changes which reflected the changes within me.
No need here for the descriptions of disbelief, anger, and grief. What is more interesting is the dryness of my prayers. The colors draining out of my art, the joy draining out of my songs.
My prayers became focussed on things I believed Brenda needed:
“Lord, my Lord, please bring someone to my wife, someone to come along side of her to help her draw near to you. Send people to pray for her, to help her find her way back to You.”
That was a time of specific prayers. And though she still seems far from opening her heart to God, I believe those prayers were answered, I didn’t pay much attention to those answers to my prayers, but I believe they were there. My prayers were changing.
In my confusion and anxiety I found myself unable to pray for specific things anymore. So my prayers became general.
“Lord, my Lord, please grant me patience, wisdom, strength, and endurance. Show me what to do, let me follow You more easily. I feel I am in darkness and I need your light.”
The cycle of the days of the weeks had their own patterns. Tensions rose after our counseling sessions. Her anxiety over keeping up appearances at church brought tension as well. Slowly I came to a place where I could accept whatever may happen. And for a while my prayers seemed simply quiet, talking to God with only my heart, the words ran out. My prayers were changing.
A friend recommended a book to me. A novel. The plot is a little contrived, but the theology was pretty good. What is more intriguing (present tense as I am still reading it, about two chapters left to go) is that the thoughts I have had about God, things I have written, posted here, and other writings left unfinished, unposted, were reinforced with each chapter I read. I would write about the nature of God, and the next chapter what I read seemed to echo what I wrote. I wrote about seeing Jesus as a friend, and the next chapter explored the idea.
And that is where my prayers are now.
I have been talking to Jesus, just as I would if he were an ordinary guy. I’ve been praying to Him about the recent snows, the loss of some of those trees our owl stayed in, about the way I feel... just stuff, ordinary stuff.
The novel is nearly wrapped up. But I seem to be bumping into it in other places. One of my 8th grade students saw it on my desk today, told me he had read it, that many people at his church had read it. The counselor saw it with me today, spoke quite a bit about how there seems to be many people reading it lately and he had asked a theology professor to check it out for him. An email from our church today mentioned the novel would be the subject of an upcoming Sunday School class and the book would be available for purchase at our church.
I just know that it has echoed my thoughts, that what I have felt lately has been repeated in each subsequent reading.
Regardless of the popularity of the book or its apparent connection it has had to my recent spiritual thought, the more important issue for me is the connection to my prayer life.
I am feeling closer to Jesus Lately. I think I can almost truly call Him my friend. It is a paradigm shift, a change in how I feel about God.
I believe that there is evil in the world. I believe that most of it is caused by the choices we make because of the freedom we have to reject God. And I believe that He can make good come from evil. He can use it for good, even though He had nothing to do with the causes.
I believe the pains I have felt over these last six months are being turned to something good. For my soul.
It gives me a little peace. My heart seems to have healed a little bit this week.
I can feel my big brother near.
Feels pretty good.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
What a Friend We Have in Jesus
I love my church. Sometimes that is a healthy thing, sometimes it isn’t.
I’ve been attending over 16 years. They have helped me through some tough times. They have rejoiced with me and grieved with me. They have helped in tight spots, and permitted me to be a part of their lives.
When I am there I feel like I am a part of a family. Every Sunday is a family reunion without the hot dogs and softball game. There are folks there I admire greatly, and folks I don’t know as well as I should, and folks who think differently than I do. But odd or normal, young or old, these people mean a lot to me.
There has been times when I put too much of my energy into that place. I’ve put hours and hours into crafting a four or five minute video when I should have been paying more attention to my family, to my marriage.
There are many things I love about that church.
I love worship. I shut my eyes and lift my voice with others, coaxing my heart to hold the lyrics as prayers, offerings to Him.
I love the Prayer Room. It is a retreat from the world where I can go to pray without interruptions. I can read my Bible, pray silently or aloud, write or draw my prayers on the walls, sometimes I even take a solitary communion there, just me and God. Kind of a strange idea, isn’t it? Communion outside of community, except for the trinity that is.
I’ve a strange idea about church that has been growing in my mind and heart lately. As much as church helps me to connect ot God, might it not also interfere with developing a closer relationship to Him?
Church provides the stability to my beliefs, helping me not stray too far (who knows where this odd mind of mine would end up if I only listened to my own thoughts?!), it keeps doctrines straight and healthy. In church, in the company of men and women I trust, my faith is strengthened and kept true.
But perhaps I rely on them too much.
In church I am a part of a human social network, perhaps a little too similar to other human social networks such as Kiwanis, or Rotary, or The Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks. In church I wear my best clothes, mostly so those in attendance can see me wearing my best clothes (well, actually, I don’t wear a tie there, which I do at work, but you know what I mean).
In church I carefully keep a good face on, keeping up appearances. Of course lately, I have to paste on a plastic face so my pain doesn’t show. I don’t want too much scrutiny from those who aren’t very, very close.
But I’ve been thinking about Jesus. In church I hold Him up in reverence, keeping His holiness in the forefront of my thoughts because it is there I am most reminded of His sacrifice for me. The cross is a symbol of such great love, purchased at such great cost, that I am humbled, and there that symbol is everywhere I look.
But...
Is that really how Jesus wants me to connect to Him?
What if I stripped away the blinders church puts on me? What if I set aside my trembling righteous fear of the Almighty Living Word? What if I simply invited Him to take part in the day to day pain and drudgery and, well, crap, of living as a human being?
He would get that, wouldn’t He?
He knows what it’s like to eat and sweat and get dirty, to need sleep and defecate and do all the tedious parts of living as a mortal.
Isn’t He the Eternal Mortal? Isn’t He carrying the wounds of His sacrifice into Eternity? Isn’t He the Living Word who not only did the big scary stuff, like create the universe, but went through being a baby, and a toddler? Didn't He stumble while learning to walk, got scrapes and bruises and the pimples of adolescence?
If I lived in Judea two thousand years ago and met Him before He began His ministry, before He gathered the twelve, wouldn’t He have been the kind of guy I could sit beside and listen as He talked about the best way to smooth a piece of dogwood? Wouldn’t He have given me a friendly hug if I told Him that I hurt because my child died? Wouldn’t He have walked with me through a grove of fig trees so I could spend a little time unburdening my heart over my confusion about my marriage?
So what makes that relationship so hard to grasp now?
Isn’t the whole idea about inviting Him into my heart really an echo of the idea that He is by nature an intimate internal relationship, The Trinity? Isn’t that the sort of relationship He wants with me?
What if I set aside the terror I feel when I think about Him from my knowledge about the vastness, complexity, and beauty of the universe? What if I paused in my trembling over the wonder of beauty and joy and all the good which I know flows like sunshine from Him?
What if I simply said, Jesus, my Lord, Big Brother, Savior, and Creator, could You sit beside me a little while and just be my friend? Isn’t that something He knows how to do?
I’ve several good friends who will do that with me. I’ve written about them from time to time. Recently I wrote about one who took me out for coffee and simply listened to me as I spoke about things he already knew. As most of you know, someone who simply listens is always considered a great conversationalist and this friend is such.
This friend of mine rarely offers advice. And half of the times he does it is in joke.
What if I tried that relationship with Jesus? What if I really let myself share who I am, everything I am? What if instead of just offering Him my praises and worship and reverence and prayers, I also acknowledge that I want Him to carry some of my pain, just exactly the same way He carried that cross after allowing mortals to spit, whip, and beat Him?
What if I added the rough texture of my friendship to the polished surface of my church worship? What might happen to my faith then?
Just a thought.
I’ve been attending over 16 years. They have helped me through some tough times. They have rejoiced with me and grieved with me. They have helped in tight spots, and permitted me to be a part of their lives.
When I am there I feel like I am a part of a family. Every Sunday is a family reunion without the hot dogs and softball game. There are folks there I admire greatly, and folks I don’t know as well as I should, and folks who think differently than I do. But odd or normal, young or old, these people mean a lot to me.
There has been times when I put too much of my energy into that place. I’ve put hours and hours into crafting a four or five minute video when I should have been paying more attention to my family, to my marriage.
There are many things I love about that church.
I love worship. I shut my eyes and lift my voice with others, coaxing my heart to hold the lyrics as prayers, offerings to Him.
I love the Prayer Room. It is a retreat from the world where I can go to pray without interruptions. I can read my Bible, pray silently or aloud, write or draw my prayers on the walls, sometimes I even take a solitary communion there, just me and God. Kind of a strange idea, isn’t it? Communion outside of community, except for the trinity that is.
I’ve a strange idea about church that has been growing in my mind and heart lately. As much as church helps me to connect ot God, might it not also interfere with developing a closer relationship to Him?
Church provides the stability to my beliefs, helping me not stray too far (who knows where this odd mind of mine would end up if I only listened to my own thoughts?!), it keeps doctrines straight and healthy. In church, in the company of men and women I trust, my faith is strengthened and kept true.
But perhaps I rely on them too much.
In church I am a part of a human social network, perhaps a little too similar to other human social networks such as Kiwanis, or Rotary, or The Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks. In church I wear my best clothes, mostly so those in attendance can see me wearing my best clothes (well, actually, I don’t wear a tie there, which I do at work, but you know what I mean).
In church I carefully keep a good face on, keeping up appearances. Of course lately, I have to paste on a plastic face so my pain doesn’t show. I don’t want too much scrutiny from those who aren’t very, very close.
But I’ve been thinking about Jesus. In church I hold Him up in reverence, keeping His holiness in the forefront of my thoughts because it is there I am most reminded of His sacrifice for me. The cross is a symbol of such great love, purchased at such great cost, that I am humbled, and there that symbol is everywhere I look.
But...
Is that really how Jesus wants me to connect to Him?
What if I stripped away the blinders church puts on me? What if I set aside my trembling righteous fear of the Almighty Living Word? What if I simply invited Him to take part in the day to day pain and drudgery and, well, crap, of living as a human being?
He would get that, wouldn’t He?
He knows what it’s like to eat and sweat and get dirty, to need sleep and defecate and do all the tedious parts of living as a mortal.
Isn’t He the Eternal Mortal? Isn’t He carrying the wounds of His sacrifice into Eternity? Isn’t He the Living Word who not only did the big scary stuff, like create the universe, but went through being a baby, and a toddler? Didn't He stumble while learning to walk, got scrapes and bruises and the pimples of adolescence?
If I lived in Judea two thousand years ago and met Him before He began His ministry, before He gathered the twelve, wouldn’t He have been the kind of guy I could sit beside and listen as He talked about the best way to smooth a piece of dogwood? Wouldn’t He have given me a friendly hug if I told Him that I hurt because my child died? Wouldn’t He have walked with me through a grove of fig trees so I could spend a little time unburdening my heart over my confusion about my marriage?
So what makes that relationship so hard to grasp now?
Isn’t the whole idea about inviting Him into my heart really an echo of the idea that He is by nature an intimate internal relationship, The Trinity? Isn’t that the sort of relationship He wants with me?
What if I set aside the terror I feel when I think about Him from my knowledge about the vastness, complexity, and beauty of the universe? What if I paused in my trembling over the wonder of beauty and joy and all the good which I know flows like sunshine from Him?
What if I simply said, Jesus, my Lord, Big Brother, Savior, and Creator, could You sit beside me a little while and just be my friend? Isn’t that something He knows how to do?
I’ve several good friends who will do that with me. I’ve written about them from time to time. Recently I wrote about one who took me out for coffee and simply listened to me as I spoke about things he already knew. As most of you know, someone who simply listens is always considered a great conversationalist and this friend is such.
This friend of mine rarely offers advice. And half of the times he does it is in joke.
What if I tried that relationship with Jesus? What if I really let myself share who I am, everything I am? What if instead of just offering Him my praises and worship and reverence and prayers, I also acknowledge that I want Him to carry some of my pain, just exactly the same way He carried that cross after allowing mortals to spit, whip, and beat Him?
What if I added the rough texture of my friendship to the polished surface of my church worship? What might happen to my faith then?
Just a thought.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Light
I think everyone wonders about the nature of God sometimes. How could a good God allow so much hurt to happen, especially to the innocent?
That question is why I started my first blog, Job’s Tale. The book of Job is about a man who has the most horrific things happen, and he did nothing, absolutely nothing, to deserve them.
So, how could a good God...
How is it that my wife and I were denied children, though we ached for them, prayed for them, we were not going to get them, unless we adopted.
Our first child was born on Brenda’s birthday and taken home the second day of his life. He went to sleep at 10:30 the morning of December 15th, 1992, and drifted off into eternity. No accident. No disease. No poison or storm or pool of water, he went to sleep and I sat a few feet away as he whimpered to be picked up, and never awoke again.
How could a good God...
Brenda has had trauma in her life, especially in her childhood. Evil crept toward her, touched her, hurt her.
How could a good God...
Setting aside the specifics of poor Job, of my own sorrows, let’s look at the big picture.
First, we can’t really talk about God. Words themselves are symbols of things and can never reflect the full truth of what they describe. But beyond that, we cannot truly describe a being that is so beyond us. We are tiny souls trapped in mortal bodies, scratching about in four dimensions. How can we describe an eternal being, one in three separate yet completely unified beings, existing in at least a dozen dimensions, and holding the universe itself, from beginning to end, the way we might hold a paper weight?
So, having said we can’t really talk about God, let’s talk about God.
My mom wished to me once that “they” could invent a macrowave that beamed coolness at food as a microwave beams heat. I explained to her microwaves are really a form of energy, a type of light, and that the box on her kitchen counter just pumps energy in. There isn’t any such thing as pumping in cold. Cold is the absence of heat, the lessening of energy, not a force in itself. There isn’t any place in the universe that is truly, purely, cold, what we term absolute zero, or 0 Kelvin. It is theoretical, it does not exist in the universe. All matter contains some energy, even if it is only the packet of photons trapped within the energy shell of a single electron.
God is like heat. He pumps His energy into the universe. We can shield ourselves from that energy, run away from God, choose our own paths that lead as far from Him as we can get, like a man hiding on the dark side of the moon.
It isn’t easy to avoid His power. He is everywhere. Even Hitler saw rainbows, Idi Amin breathed fresh air.
Light is another good metaphor for Him (though heat and light really are much the same thing).
Light pours over all the Earth. There may be deep caves one could find that would not have the light which streams upon us, but we would have to seek them out. I suppose evil does that. Evil seeks darkness, shields itself from beauty and joy and love.
Caves are a good metaphor in that they are natural parts of the world. Like caves, there is suffering that happens through nature. The shrug of tectonic plates sometimes flings water which might wash away villages and islands. A week spot in the mantle, gnawed from below for millenia, suddenly opens up and spews ash and molten rock onto a surface teeming with life. It is hurtful for us, it causes much sorrow. There is a price paid for living and for some it seems more than what is fair.
(My mind turns to that infant of mine, his blue face reflected in my panicked eyes...)
But because there is sorrow, because there is evil, this does not mean God is cruel.
We cannot fully understand His relationship with Himself... Creator, Comforter, eternally mortal carpenter, a single being and a community, sharing, giving, sacrificing, creating, comforting, binding all things together, gathering... we cannot fully understand this sort of love.
We understand it was great enough for Him to create powerful beings to share in His love: cherubim, seraphim, powers and dominions. We understand that He wanted to share His love even further, opening His heart, His eternity, to creatures who sweat and consume and breathe and die carrying tiny eternal souls in mortal, suffering bodies.
We understand He loves enough to set us free from returning that love. He has cut the puppet strings and let us totter about on shaky legs, so we can stand and watch Him in wonder if we choose, or stagger away into the dark caves of our hearts.
And that is where evil comes into the world. In order to permit us the freedom to choose to look back at Him, to offer our wayward hearts, He permits the freedom for us to run from the light, to crawl into darkness, into the cold, and put the distance of our sins between He (them) and us.
It is hurtful.
It is evil.
But it is not God’s. It is ours.
Even so, even as painful as life can be, it doesn’t last very long. A hundred years at most. An infinitely tiny fragment in the infinitely long existence of eternity.
I’m sorry, honey. I wish you didn’t hurt. I wish you hadn’t had terrible things happen to you. But those things are shadows cast by things standing between you and God. They weren’t caused, by commission or omission by a being of love.
That question is why I started my first blog, Job’s Tale. The book of Job is about a man who has the most horrific things happen, and he did nothing, absolutely nothing, to deserve them.
So, how could a good God...
How is it that my wife and I were denied children, though we ached for them, prayed for them, we were not going to get them, unless we adopted.
Our first child was born on Brenda’s birthday and taken home the second day of his life. He went to sleep at 10:30 the morning of December 15th, 1992, and drifted off into eternity. No accident. No disease. No poison or storm or pool of water, he went to sleep and I sat a few feet away as he whimpered to be picked up, and never awoke again.
How could a good God...
Brenda has had trauma in her life, especially in her childhood. Evil crept toward her, touched her, hurt her.
How could a good God...
Setting aside the specifics of poor Job, of my own sorrows, let’s look at the big picture.
First, we can’t really talk about God. Words themselves are symbols of things and can never reflect the full truth of what they describe. But beyond that, we cannot truly describe a being that is so beyond us. We are tiny souls trapped in mortal bodies, scratching about in four dimensions. How can we describe an eternal being, one in three separate yet completely unified beings, existing in at least a dozen dimensions, and holding the universe itself, from beginning to end, the way we might hold a paper weight?
So, having said we can’t really talk about God, let’s talk about God.
My mom wished to me once that “they” could invent a macrowave that beamed coolness at food as a microwave beams heat. I explained to her microwaves are really a form of energy, a type of light, and that the box on her kitchen counter just pumps energy in. There isn’t any such thing as pumping in cold. Cold is the absence of heat, the lessening of energy, not a force in itself. There isn’t any place in the universe that is truly, purely, cold, what we term absolute zero, or 0 Kelvin. It is theoretical, it does not exist in the universe. All matter contains some energy, even if it is only the packet of photons trapped within the energy shell of a single electron.
God is like heat. He pumps His energy into the universe. We can shield ourselves from that energy, run away from God, choose our own paths that lead as far from Him as we can get, like a man hiding on the dark side of the moon.
It isn’t easy to avoid His power. He is everywhere. Even Hitler saw rainbows, Idi Amin breathed fresh air.
Light is another good metaphor for Him (though heat and light really are much the same thing).
Light pours over all the Earth. There may be deep caves one could find that would not have the light which streams upon us, but we would have to seek them out. I suppose evil does that. Evil seeks darkness, shields itself from beauty and joy and love.
Caves are a good metaphor in that they are natural parts of the world. Like caves, there is suffering that happens through nature. The shrug of tectonic plates sometimes flings water which might wash away villages and islands. A week spot in the mantle, gnawed from below for millenia, suddenly opens up and spews ash and molten rock onto a surface teeming with life. It is hurtful for us, it causes much sorrow. There is a price paid for living and for some it seems more than what is fair.
(My mind turns to that infant of mine, his blue face reflected in my panicked eyes...)
But because there is sorrow, because there is evil, this does not mean God is cruel.
We cannot fully understand His relationship with Himself... Creator, Comforter, eternally mortal carpenter, a single being and a community, sharing, giving, sacrificing, creating, comforting, binding all things together, gathering... we cannot fully understand this sort of love.
We understand it was great enough for Him to create powerful beings to share in His love: cherubim, seraphim, powers and dominions. We understand that He wanted to share His love even further, opening His heart, His eternity, to creatures who sweat and consume and breathe and die carrying tiny eternal souls in mortal, suffering bodies.
We understand He loves enough to set us free from returning that love. He has cut the puppet strings and let us totter about on shaky legs, so we can stand and watch Him in wonder if we choose, or stagger away into the dark caves of our hearts.
And that is where evil comes into the world. In order to permit us the freedom to choose to look back at Him, to offer our wayward hearts, He permits the freedom for us to run from the light, to crawl into darkness, into the cold, and put the distance of our sins between He (them) and us.
It is hurtful.
It is evil.
But it is not God’s. It is ours.
Even so, even as painful as life can be, it doesn’t last very long. A hundred years at most. An infinitely tiny fragment in the infinitely long existence of eternity.
----------------------------
I’m sorry, honey. I wish you didn’t hurt. I wish you hadn’t had terrible things happen to you. But those things are shadows cast by things standing between you and God. They weren’t caused, by commission or omission by a being of love.
Monday, January 21, 2008
One Foot in Front of Another
I went with Brenda to her substance abuse treatment this morning. It was supposed to be "family day," a chance for the group's participants to bring a family member.
It was interesting. It helped me understand a few things.
We did an activity where we listed 10 things we love about our family member (and why), and 10 things we appreciate (and why).
Brenda's reaction was not what I expected.
I tried to say the things that are true, that I really feel, and in a way that would build her up.
But on the way home her anger grew and grew.
It seems that she felt like I looked like a great guy, and why would she want to leave that?
At any rate... She is resentful, hurt, angry, and I don't know what to do about it. She took the list I wrote with her, or I would have copied it out here to see if anyone out there has insight into her heart.
Doesn't matter I suppose.
She is who she is. I can only work on me.
She was so upset I decided to take us to Denny's for coffee rather than home to where our kids are. She needed to calm down a little.
Her moods went up and down all afternoon. She just left, headed for an AA meeting, visibly upset.
I don't know what to do.
I guess just one foot in front of another.
It was interesting. It helped me understand a few things.
We did an activity where we listed 10 things we love about our family member (and why), and 10 things we appreciate (and why).
Brenda's reaction was not what I expected.
I tried to say the things that are true, that I really feel, and in a way that would build her up.
But on the way home her anger grew and grew.
It seems that she felt like I looked like a great guy, and why would she want to leave that?
At any rate... She is resentful, hurt, angry, and I don't know what to do about it. She took the list I wrote with her, or I would have copied it out here to see if anyone out there has insight into her heart.
Doesn't matter I suppose.
She is who she is. I can only work on me.
She was so upset I decided to take us to Denny's for coffee rather than home to where our kids are. She needed to calm down a little.
Her moods went up and down all afternoon. She just left, headed for an AA meeting, visibly upset.
I don't know what to do.
I guess just one foot in front of another.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Rogaine
When everything started unraveling at home last summer, I weighed a little over 230 pounds. I lost my appetite and dropped 10 pounds in something like two weeks.
It was weight I needed to shed anyway.
Since my stomach had shrunk a little from eating less, I kept my meals small, and over the next few months lost another 20 pounds.
My weight loss has stabilized, though I eat very little.
I joined a gym with my son Isaac, but haven’t been there but once a week on the average. I want to get fit. I want to lose a little more weight, get back to the 180 pounds I weighed 20 years ago, but it won’t come off unless I get more serious about exercise. I have been holding steady at 200 pounds since October.
There is a part of me that believes my wife may love me more if I am more fit. There is another part of me that would just as soon divorce her, and still lose the weight anyway because it would be healthier for me.
Brenda believes I am suffering from low self esteem.
I suppose she is right.
I don’t feel very good about myself. Or about her either. I don’t feel very good about a lot of things anymore.
I love my kids.
I love God.
I love my job.
I love all of that, yet strangely, I don’t feel joy.
I see beauty in the world, in the universe. I get excited over my growing understanding of astrophysics (did you know that galactic super clusters, perhaps the largest structures in the universe, comprise of billions of galaxies, each with billions of stars?!!!).
Yet seeing beauty, while it stirs something within, hasn’t made me feel the way it used to.
Brenda said something the other day about the small bald spot that is glacially spreading on the back of my head.
I first became aware of it when I saw a photo of myself painting Infant Messiah, Infinite Messiah a couple of Christmases ago.
It surprised me. I didn’t know it was there, not having much opportunity to look at the back of my head.
I thought about that little spot of thinning hair. I thought about the weight I have gained over the years. I thought about my wife with another man.
I said something wistful, or mournful, or self-depreciating about that spot on my head and she told me that it didn’t matter to her.
I know she meant that such a superficial thing as that slight spot of thinner hair wasn’t important enough to affect her feelings in a larger sense... but I also thought about how she simply doesn’t seem to feel love for me... not in any way which makes it easier for me to envision a solid future with her in my life.
I didn’t reply to her reassurances.
When I came home yesterday she showed me that she had bought me a three month supply of Rogaine.
I didn’t know what to say.
I don’t feel the need to hastily ward off thinning hair. It doesn’t matter to me. Especially now. There aren’t too many things I feel are all that important beyond caring for my children, seeking wisdom on what to do about my marriage, and nurturing my love for God.
But it was $50! Money we can’t afford. Yet it was also a gesture on her part which says: “I know you are hurting, I know you feel no one loves you, I know you think it is partly because of how you look, and I want you to feel better about yourself. Perhaps this will make you feel a little better.”
So, this morning I followed the instructions on the package and rubbed some of the solution on that thinning spot. I did it again this evening, just as the package prescribes.
It feels stupid.
I suppose there is nothing wrong with men wanting to keep a full head of hair. But there isn’t anything wrong with letting it do whatever it is going to do.
There isn’t anything wrong in wanting to shed a few pounds, to get healthier. But I don’t feel the urge to do so because it will make me more attractive.
Or at least, I don’t think it does.
There are bigger issues than those.
There is the salvation, or dissolution, of my marriage. There is the task of finishing the raising of these two boys.
I was a little ticked at the end of the work day today. I worked extra hard yesterday to get my grades completed so I would be able to leave work early today and take my son to the gym before dinner.
It was 2:20 and I had not only done everything I needed to do to finish up things for the mid term, prepare for the changes in my classes next week, straighten up the TV studio I am building so it is ready for its first productions, and taught myself a little about some new software.
I got an email. It was from the mother of a student. Her student isn’t currently in any of my classes, but I sure don’t want to cross this woman. She writes dozens of emails to our district superintendent, my principal, school board members. She has a history of criticism regarding details in our curriculum, and has even taken her issues to the local paper when she feels she isn’t being heard.
Her email said she was coming over.
I ran to the restroom, hoping to get out of the building before she arrived, but too late.
Even though I told her I was about to leave, she wheedled an hour and twenty minutes of my time out of me, helping her daughter edit some little piece of music for the talent portion of some beauty pageant. She had bought online an instrumental version of “Que Sera, Sera” and needed it cut down to under two minutes.
There was a small hitch in the middle of the song, a 1.5 second blank spot, and the daughter was using one of the lab computers to cut the song down and try to repair the blank spot.
After an hour of trying to be patient, I finally went over and started showing the middle schooler how to take a piece of the Doris Day version with the lyrics, clip a little bit of it, paste it in over the blank spot on the instrumental version, and ramp up and then down the audio on that track so one couldn’’t really hear Ms. Day, so the song regained its continuity. I then clipped the poortion longer two minutes off and softened the cut with a little volume adjustments.
The song’s bald spot was repaired. We burned it onto a CD, and I began locking cabinets, and turning off lights, ostensibly to show I wanted to leave.
The woman clutched my arm, gushed over how sweet I am (I think she was flirting a little), and then launched into questions on whether or not I would be including keyboarding in my curriculum this year.
I practically had to push her out the door.
So, I was irritated by the theft of an hour and twenty minutes of my time. And I didn’t feel like going home. I went to the cemetery, walked and prayed. The song “Que Sera, Sera” looped ironically in my mind as I walked. :What will be, will be... the future’s not ours to see...”
Now it is close to midnight, I have taken a Xanax, but still don’t feel much like sleeping, and I’m tapping at this keyboard beneath this glowing screen in a darkened room.
I have mixed feelings about why I am losing weight. I have mixed feelings about why I am rubbing some strange lotion onto the back of my head. I have mixed feelings about helping some student put together a piece of music for a pageant which emphasizes superficial characteristics.
I threw a patch onto a thin spot on a piece of music with as much passion as I am dripping Rogaine onto the thin spot on the back of my head.
Where the heck am I going with all of this?
I guess I am saying that I wish things were different. I wish I could ponder the incredible beauty of the giant pulses of enormous black holes which make billions of galaxies dance through the universe, to truly grasp the concept that the edges of our universe are receding at 90% of the speed of light from us, to take joy in rainbows and the fresh snow gleaming from Mount Hood. I wish that my prayers were joyful things instead of the questions, and begging for wisdom, and the recounting of my worries. I wish my marriage was healthy, joyful, the way God wants it to be.
I guess I wish that I was losing weight simply because I had the interest in working out, and not simply eating less because I don’t feel like eating.
I don’t care if I grow hair on that thin spot in the back of my hair.
I do care that the joy has thinned so much in my spiritual life that I can’t be more thankful for what He has made and what he has done for me that I actually spend 40 minutes writing a blog post about Rogaine.
It was weight I needed to shed anyway.
Since my stomach had shrunk a little from eating less, I kept my meals small, and over the next few months lost another 20 pounds.
My weight loss has stabilized, though I eat very little.
I joined a gym with my son Isaac, but haven’t been there but once a week on the average. I want to get fit. I want to lose a little more weight, get back to the 180 pounds I weighed 20 years ago, but it won’t come off unless I get more serious about exercise. I have been holding steady at 200 pounds since October.
There is a part of me that believes my wife may love me more if I am more fit. There is another part of me that would just as soon divorce her, and still lose the weight anyway because it would be healthier for me.
Brenda believes I am suffering from low self esteem.
I suppose she is right.
I don’t feel very good about myself. Or about her either. I don’t feel very good about a lot of things anymore.
I love my kids.
I love God.
I love my job.
I love all of that, yet strangely, I don’t feel joy.
I see beauty in the world, in the universe. I get excited over my growing understanding of astrophysics (did you know that galactic super clusters, perhaps the largest structures in the universe, comprise of billions of galaxies, each with billions of stars?!!!).
Yet seeing beauty, while it stirs something within, hasn’t made me feel the way it used to.
Brenda said something the other day about the small bald spot that is glacially spreading on the back of my head.
I first became aware of it when I saw a photo of myself painting Infant Messiah, Infinite Messiah a couple of Christmases ago.
Infant Messiah, Infinite Messiah
It surprised me. I didn’t know it was there, not having much opportunity to look at the back of my head.
I thought about that little spot of thinning hair. I thought about the weight I have gained over the years. I thought about my wife with another man.
I said something wistful, or mournful, or self-depreciating about that spot on my head and she told me that it didn’t matter to her.
I know she meant that such a superficial thing as that slight spot of thinner hair wasn’t important enough to affect her feelings in a larger sense... but I also thought about how she simply doesn’t seem to feel love for me... not in any way which makes it easier for me to envision a solid future with her in my life.
I didn’t reply to her reassurances.
When I came home yesterday she showed me that she had bought me a three month supply of Rogaine.
I didn’t know what to say.
I don’t feel the need to hastily ward off thinning hair. It doesn’t matter to me. Especially now. There aren’t too many things I feel are all that important beyond caring for my children, seeking wisdom on what to do about my marriage, and nurturing my love for God.
But it was $50! Money we can’t afford. Yet it was also a gesture on her part which says: “I know you are hurting, I know you feel no one loves you, I know you think it is partly because of how you look, and I want you to feel better about yourself. Perhaps this will make you feel a little better.”
So, this morning I followed the instructions on the package and rubbed some of the solution on that thinning spot. I did it again this evening, just as the package prescribes.
It feels stupid.
I suppose there is nothing wrong with men wanting to keep a full head of hair. But there isn’t anything wrong with letting it do whatever it is going to do.
There isn’t anything wrong in wanting to shed a few pounds, to get healthier. But I don’t feel the urge to do so because it will make me more attractive.
Or at least, I don’t think it does.
There are bigger issues than those.
There is the salvation, or dissolution, of my marriage. There is the task of finishing the raising of these two boys.
I was a little ticked at the end of the work day today. I worked extra hard yesterday to get my grades completed so I would be able to leave work early today and take my son to the gym before dinner.
It was 2:20 and I had not only done everything I needed to do to finish up things for the mid term, prepare for the changes in my classes next week, straighten up the TV studio I am building so it is ready for its first productions, and taught myself a little about some new software.
I got an email. It was from the mother of a student. Her student isn’t currently in any of my classes, but I sure don’t want to cross this woman. She writes dozens of emails to our district superintendent, my principal, school board members. She has a history of criticism regarding details in our curriculum, and has even taken her issues to the local paper when she feels she isn’t being heard.
Her email said she was coming over.
I ran to the restroom, hoping to get out of the building before she arrived, but too late.
Even though I told her I was about to leave, she wheedled an hour and twenty minutes of my time out of me, helping her daughter edit some little piece of music for the talent portion of some beauty pageant. She had bought online an instrumental version of “Que Sera, Sera” and needed it cut down to under two minutes.
There was a small hitch in the middle of the song, a 1.5 second blank spot, and the daughter was using one of the lab computers to cut the song down and try to repair the blank spot.
After an hour of trying to be patient, I finally went over and started showing the middle schooler how to take a piece of the Doris Day version with the lyrics, clip a little bit of it, paste it in over the blank spot on the instrumental version, and ramp up and then down the audio on that track so one couldn’’t really hear Ms. Day, so the song regained its continuity. I then clipped the poortion longer two minutes off and softened the cut with a little volume adjustments.
The song’s bald spot was repaired. We burned it onto a CD, and I began locking cabinets, and turning off lights, ostensibly to show I wanted to leave.
The woman clutched my arm, gushed over how sweet I am (I think she was flirting a little), and then launched into questions on whether or not I would be including keyboarding in my curriculum this year.
I practically had to push her out the door.
So, I was irritated by the theft of an hour and twenty minutes of my time. And I didn’t feel like going home. I went to the cemetery, walked and prayed. The song “Que Sera, Sera” looped ironically in my mind as I walked. :What will be, will be... the future’s not ours to see...”
Now it is close to midnight, I have taken a Xanax, but still don’t feel much like sleeping, and I’m tapping at this keyboard beneath this glowing screen in a darkened room.
I have mixed feelings about why I am losing weight. I have mixed feelings about why I am rubbing some strange lotion onto the back of my head. I have mixed feelings about helping some student put together a piece of music for a pageant which emphasizes superficial characteristics.
I threw a patch onto a thin spot on a piece of music with as much passion as I am dripping Rogaine onto the thin spot on the back of my head.
Where the heck am I going with all of this?
I guess I am saying that I wish things were different. I wish I could ponder the incredible beauty of the giant pulses of enormous black holes which make billions of galaxies dance through the universe, to truly grasp the concept that the edges of our universe are receding at 90% of the speed of light from us, to take joy in rainbows and the fresh snow gleaming from Mount Hood. I wish that my prayers were joyful things instead of the questions, and begging for wisdom, and the recounting of my worries. I wish my marriage was healthy, joyful, the way God wants it to be.
I guess I wish that I was losing weight simply because I had the interest in working out, and not simply eating less because I don’t feel like eating.
I don’t care if I grow hair on that thin spot in the back of my hair.
I do care that the joy has thinned so much in my spiritual life that I can’t be more thankful for what He has made and what he has done for me that I actually spend 40 minutes writing a blog post about Rogaine.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Face to Face
Met with a friend this afternoon. Good guy. Knows what’s going on (reads this blog).
He wanted to buy me a cup of coffee and I’m cheap enough that I always jump at such an opportunity.
Seriously, he wanted to check on me, look me in the eyes as I talk, hear the timber of my voice, read my body language.
I really didn’t tell him anything new. How could I? I spill so much of what is going on into these electronic pages that I leave little more to add... except perhaps the look in my eyes, the timber of my voice, my body language.
He doesn’t give advice. Or if he does, it isn’t often. Usually he just listens; a trait that makes him a great conversationalist.
The words I pour through this digital portal has told him pretty much everything (though I sound far more clever when I write).
So, I didn’t really say much to my friend. Nothing new anyway. We talked a little about the prayer art I do. He finds my relief of having given away the ones I have accumulated odd. We talked a little about my circumstances. We talked a little about how I seem to process what I feel through writing.
Mostly we just sat at a very tiny table in a coffee shop named after an important character in an important work of American literature. Mostly we just did what friends do, see each other.
Well... actually he was watching me, I was too self-absorbed to ask the right questions about his own life and home. And, of course, I got a free coffee out of it. (Dude, I’ll pay ya back someday!)
I think that is why it is hard to pray sometimes. It seems a poor substitute to really talking to the One who loves me more than anyone else.
Wouldn’t it be great to really talk to God? Face to face? Moses asked to do that. God told him he couldn’t handle it.
I guess that was the point of Jesus, God in a form we could handle. Sort of. I think Jesus was a little too intense for a lot of folks even then.
I think that’s the reason for idols. Folks wanted a god they could see close up, even touch if they dared. Of course it wasn’t all the thrill they hoped it would be, having been made by human hands and all.
Well... this post was a little relief. I tire of talking about recent developments in the chaos I call home. It’s nice to go on a little literary walk about.
Just like it was nice to meet my friend at Starbucks. There wasn’t anything new about what we talked about, but the face to face thing was good.
I suppose that is what faith is all about. Faith is the internal certainty that the blog posts we call prayers will someday be something much more personal.
He wanted to buy me a cup of coffee and I’m cheap enough that I always jump at such an opportunity.
Seriously, he wanted to check on me, look me in the eyes as I talk, hear the timber of my voice, read my body language.
I really didn’t tell him anything new. How could I? I spill so much of what is going on into these electronic pages that I leave little more to add... except perhaps the look in my eyes, the timber of my voice, my body language.
He doesn’t give advice. Or if he does, it isn’t often. Usually he just listens; a trait that makes him a great conversationalist.
The words I pour through this digital portal has told him pretty much everything (though I sound far more clever when I write).
So, I didn’t really say much to my friend. Nothing new anyway. We talked a little about the prayer art I do. He finds my relief of having given away the ones I have accumulated odd. We talked a little about my circumstances. We talked a little about how I seem to process what I feel through writing.
Mostly we just sat at a very tiny table in a coffee shop named after an important character in an important work of American literature. Mostly we just did what friends do, see each other.
Well... actually he was watching me, I was too self-absorbed to ask the right questions about his own life and home. And, of course, I got a free coffee out of it. (Dude, I’ll pay ya back someday!)
I think that is why it is hard to pray sometimes. It seems a poor substitute to really talking to the One who loves me more than anyone else.
Wouldn’t it be great to really talk to God? Face to face? Moses asked to do that. God told him he couldn’t handle it.
I guess that was the point of Jesus, God in a form we could handle. Sort of. I think Jesus was a little too intense for a lot of folks even then.
I think that’s the reason for idols. Folks wanted a god they could see close up, even touch if they dared. Of course it wasn’t all the thrill they hoped it would be, having been made by human hands and all.
Well... this post was a little relief. I tire of talking about recent developments in the chaos I call home. It’s nice to go on a little literary walk about.
Just like it was nice to meet my friend at Starbucks. There wasn’t anything new about what we talked about, but the face to face thing was good.
I suppose that is what faith is all about. Faith is the internal certainty that the blog posts we call prayers will someday be something much more personal.
Monday, January 14, 2008
OK
We left the small town west of Canby, a place where its main street contains a flooring store, a gas station, a small grocery, and about a dozen antique stores. Its side streets are lined with houses stretching back more than a century.
Brenda had come out of her AA meeting cheerful, bearing a slice of cake for me. I had climbed up from the church basement, as sorry for myself as a stuffed donkey from a book by A. A. Milne.
The Al Anon meeting (headquarters based in your home town, J.H!) is a rather new experience for me(third meeting, thanks P.D’.). There were only six of us, and a rather interesting mix.
I drove the four or five miles toward home.
My mood was infectious, Brenda lost her cheerfulness.
I began thinking, once again, about my situation. I thought about how I don’t trust my wife, wondered if she has kept her part of our bargain. I thought about my children, what it would be like for them if I divorced their mother. I thought about God, how I have felt Him near and been unable to make my wife understand He is love.
Somewhere between the Pudding River and the Barlow House (residence of the man who built the toll road over the cascade mountains for the Oregon Trail) a drizzle misted up the windshield, enough to turn on the wipers. And just as I passed the Vietnam Medical helicopter perched on its strange pedestal at the edge of town I suddenly felt, irrationally, it would all be OK.
I’ve been thinking about that feeling all day today. It was oddly peaceful. It seemed for a while there that it didn’t matter if my marriage survives or not. I felt like I would be OK.
Still, the feeling didn’t prevent another fitful night, perhaps five hours of sleep... nightmares.
My point...
Not sure I have one.
Or I have too many.
I’ve been thinking I am tired of the melodrama this blog has been. I’ve been thinking I will come out the other side of this experience different than I went in. Probably a little more mature, maybe even a little wiser. I’ve been thinking that Father God isn’t anything like my earthly father.
Sometimes some pretty rotten things happen in life. My earthly father has been a part of some of them. My heavenly Father has been a part of all of them. But my heavenly Father hasn’t taught me things by throwing me into harm’s way and yelling at me if I failed.
Sometimes it feels like I have been thrown into harm’s way. But unlike my wife, I don’t think God has done it.
I think that much of it has come from my own choices, and by choices of others, and some from living in a strange universe with strange physical laws and the requirement that my spirit be housed in mortality.
But instead of an angry shout about how I am incompetantly operating a piece of equipment, or failing some other test of manliness, He whispers that it is going to be OK.
Brenda had come out of her AA meeting cheerful, bearing a slice of cake for me. I had climbed up from the church basement, as sorry for myself as a stuffed donkey from a book by A. A. Milne.
The Al Anon meeting (headquarters based in your home town, J.H!) is a rather new experience for me(third meeting, thanks P.D’.). There were only six of us, and a rather interesting mix.
I drove the four or five miles toward home.
My mood was infectious, Brenda lost her cheerfulness.
I began thinking, once again, about my situation. I thought about how I don’t trust my wife, wondered if she has kept her part of our bargain. I thought about my children, what it would be like for them if I divorced their mother. I thought about God, how I have felt Him near and been unable to make my wife understand He is love.
Somewhere between the Pudding River and the Barlow House (residence of the man who built the toll road over the cascade mountains for the Oregon Trail) a drizzle misted up the windshield, enough to turn on the wipers. And just as I passed the Vietnam Medical helicopter perched on its strange pedestal at the edge of town I suddenly felt, irrationally, it would all be OK.
I’ve been thinking about that feeling all day today. It was oddly peaceful. It seemed for a while there that it didn’t matter if my marriage survives or not. I felt like I would be OK.
Still, the feeling didn’t prevent another fitful night, perhaps five hours of sleep... nightmares.
My point...
Not sure I have one.
Or I have too many.
I’ve been thinking I am tired of the melodrama this blog has been. I’ve been thinking I will come out the other side of this experience different than I went in. Probably a little more mature, maybe even a little wiser. I’ve been thinking that Father God isn’t anything like my earthly father.
Sometimes some pretty rotten things happen in life. My earthly father has been a part of some of them. My heavenly Father has been a part of all of them. But my heavenly Father hasn’t taught me things by throwing me into harm’s way and yelling at me if I failed.
Sometimes it feels like I have been thrown into harm’s way. But unlike my wife, I don’t think God has done it.
I think that much of it has come from my own choices, and by choices of others, and some from living in a strange universe with strange physical laws and the requirement that my spirit be housed in mortality.
But instead of an angry shout about how I am incompetantly operating a piece of equipment, or failing some other test of manliness, He whispers that it is going to be OK.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Dishonoring God
Last year my boss, the principal of our school, nominated me for an award as an outstanding teacher.
There was a dinner I was to attend. Nominees from schools throughout our district would be there, the award announced, but I didn’t go.
I didn’t believe I was anyone special.
A few weeks later he insisted I go to a school board meeting. I thought he wanted me to talk about one of the programs at our school, but it was so he could tell the board and local cable access he nominated me for that award, and he handed me a certificate of some sort.
I had a great year last year. I went to work early, stayed late. I had a bounce in my step, and I repeatedly told everyone: “I can’t believe I get paid for this!”
I believe it pleases God for me to do well, and enjoy, the work He has given me.
The bounce is gone this year.
It occurred to me to me today I am dishonoring God.
Yeah, I’m having a rough time. In fact, I’m scratching this note out on my Moleskine as I wait to see my doctor... a checkup on my antidepressant meds.
Yeah, I’m anxious and skittish and tired for good reason.
But...
I still have that wonderful job, doing good work, important work, work I love.
That is a very good thing.
I haven’t felt joy lately.
That does not mean God has stopped blessing me in providing such work.
I think my sadness leaks a little into my professional life, and that means I am not doing my job, the work God gave me, as well as I should.
I’m not saying that in recognizing this I will do better from now on.
I’m not saying that my sadness will no longer affect my teaching.
But by not doing my very best I am dishonoring God.
I need to remember that.
There was a dinner I was to attend. Nominees from schools throughout our district would be there, the award announced, but I didn’t go.
I didn’t believe I was anyone special.
A few weeks later he insisted I go to a school board meeting. I thought he wanted me to talk about one of the programs at our school, but it was so he could tell the board and local cable access he nominated me for that award, and he handed me a certificate of some sort.
I had a great year last year. I went to work early, stayed late. I had a bounce in my step, and I repeatedly told everyone: “I can’t believe I get paid for this!”
I believe it pleases God for me to do well, and enjoy, the work He has given me.
The bounce is gone this year.
It occurred to me to me today I am dishonoring God.
Yeah, I’m having a rough time. In fact, I’m scratching this note out on my Moleskine as I wait to see my doctor... a checkup on my antidepressant meds.
Yeah, I’m anxious and skittish and tired for good reason.
But...
I still have that wonderful job, doing good work, important work, work I love.
That is a very good thing.
I haven’t felt joy lately.
That does not mean God has stopped blessing me in providing such work.
I think my sadness leaks a little into my professional life, and that means I am not doing my job, the work God gave me, as well as I should.
I’m not saying that in recognizing this I will do better from now on.
I’m not saying that my sadness will no longer affect my teaching.
But by not doing my very best I am dishonoring God.
I need to remember that.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Not Much of a Post
I’m watching Jeremiah at Special Olympics basketball practice. Brenda is at an AA meeting.
He seems happier here than at home.
Brenda wishes he wasn’t our child.
It is tough. He needs a lot of attention and there isn’t any end to it in sight.
I love him.
I see the goodness in him.
This is a difficult post to write.
First, I really haven’t anything to say.
Secondly, the thoughts I have about my marriage are circular, and I’ve said them all before.
I love my wife.
I don’t trust her.
I want a partner in my life.
I’m not sure if she is the one.
That’s a hell of a thing to say. Twenty-six years of marriage and I don’t know if she is the one anymore.
I believe she wants to leave.
I believe she is staying out of a sense of responsibility and obligation.
I wanted to give one of you something this past week, but I had no idea it would cost $70 to ship it. Makes me feel like I can’t fulfill my promises, do what I say I will do.
I made promises when I married her. Some I kept. Some I wasn’t so good at.
I didn’t make her feel as loved as she needed.
Yeah... back to the circular thinking/writing. I’ve said all that before.
So...
What to do in the now?
I guess I keep walking. just keep moving. Keep trusting God.
Slept seven hours last night. Longest night’s sleep in over a week.
It has been running between two and five.
Got a little ticked at someone at work. Four days in a row she held her class late and I had to retake roll and restart my lesson each time when another eleven kids showed up.
Shouldn’t let it bother me.
See?
Not much of a post.
I’m going to go cheer Jeremiah on now.
I'm back.
I thought I had finished this post, posted it, and now I'm back.
I was wavering between watching Jeremiah practice and reading a book by Donald Miller.
"Brandon! Play the game!"
It was a parent standing in the door beside me, talking to one of the athletes who was watching instead of playing with the others. He was supposed to be playing. In fact, in a weird way, I believe he thought he was playing. That by being at the end of the court where the action was, he was participating.
When Brandon heard those words from his father he froze. I could see in his body language that he knew he was in trouble somehow, sort of.
Now he is on the sidelines, the coach is asking him what is wrong.
As I have typed this he has rejoined the game, lumbering along the sidelines again even with the kids bouncing the ball, thinking that he is playing. His father is silent.
The words his father spoke got a reaction from him. It is clear that there is a lot of history there. His dad has probably spent a lot of time trying to encourage his son to do more, be more.
What made me return to this post and write a little more is the idea of the conditioning we do on each other. How we react, respond to each other.
His father didn't say anything wrong. But it chilled Brandon's enthusiasm.
How much of this sort of thing goes on between my children and I?
How much of this sort of thing goes on between my wife and I?
How much of my interactions are emotional inertia? Simply reacting from the experiences of the past and not the now?
Can my wife and I learn to be different with each other? Forgive? Love?
He seems happier here than at home.
Brenda wishes he wasn’t our child.
It is tough. He needs a lot of attention and there isn’t any end to it in sight.
I love him.
I see the goodness in him.
This is a difficult post to write.
First, I really haven’t anything to say.
Secondly, the thoughts I have about my marriage are circular, and I’ve said them all before.
I love my wife.
I don’t trust her.
I want a partner in my life.
I’m not sure if she is the one.
That’s a hell of a thing to say. Twenty-six years of marriage and I don’t know if she is the one anymore.
I believe she wants to leave.
I believe she is staying out of a sense of responsibility and obligation.
I wanted to give one of you something this past week, but I had no idea it would cost $70 to ship it. Makes me feel like I can’t fulfill my promises, do what I say I will do.
I made promises when I married her. Some I kept. Some I wasn’t so good at.
I didn’t make her feel as loved as she needed.
Yeah... back to the circular thinking/writing. I’ve said all that before.
So...
What to do in the now?
I guess I keep walking. just keep moving. Keep trusting God.
Slept seven hours last night. Longest night’s sleep in over a week.
It has been running between two and five.
Got a little ticked at someone at work. Four days in a row she held her class late and I had to retake roll and restart my lesson each time when another eleven kids showed up.
Shouldn’t let it bother me.
See?
Not much of a post.
I’m going to go cheer Jeremiah on now.
I'm back.
I thought I had finished this post, posted it, and now I'm back.
I was wavering between watching Jeremiah practice and reading a book by Donald Miller.
"Brandon! Play the game!"
It was a parent standing in the door beside me, talking to one of the athletes who was watching instead of playing with the others. He was supposed to be playing. In fact, in a weird way, I believe he thought he was playing. That by being at the end of the court where the action was, he was participating.
When Brandon heard those words from his father he froze. I could see in his body language that he knew he was in trouble somehow, sort of.
Now he is on the sidelines, the coach is asking him what is wrong.
As I have typed this he has rejoined the game, lumbering along the sidelines again even with the kids bouncing the ball, thinking that he is playing. His father is silent.
The words his father spoke got a reaction from him. It is clear that there is a lot of history there. His dad has probably spent a lot of time trying to encourage his son to do more, be more.
What made me return to this post and write a little more is the idea of the conditioning we do on each other. How we react, respond to each other.
His father didn't say anything wrong. But it chilled Brandon's enthusiasm.
How much of this sort of thing goes on between my children and I?
How much of this sort of thing goes on between my wife and I?
How much of my interactions are emotional inertia? Simply reacting from the experiences of the past and not the now?
Can my wife and I learn to be different with each other? Forgive? Love?
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Christian Stuff
Ever get tired of Christian stuff?
Sometimes I do.
Saw a commercial a little while ago. It was from Time-Life Publications for a series of Country Worship CDs. A whole series.
The songs they sampled were many I enjoy singing myself. There were smooth camera zooms of singers on stage and in studios singing joyfully, worshipfully.
I wondered how much they were really feeling about God as they sang into a studio microphone or to a cheering audience.
Now, I know it is possible to worship on a stage, to tune out one’s surroundings and open my heart to my Lord. But the commercialism of seeing folks who paid for concert tickets tied to a series of music CDs turned me off a little.
I guess it was the rapturous expression on some of their faces which felt a little forced, a little too much like acting. Sometimes I get tired of the Christian stuff.
There is a Christian bookstore on Division in Portland which is simply huge. It is filled with Christian self-help sections (quite the irony there), Christian jewelry, Christian bookmarks, Christian videos, Christian games, and a Bible for every type of person in nearly any circumstance.
Christianity is big business.
Once upon a time people only learned about our faith through word of mouth.
And when it was put into book form, it was a rare and precious thing, often chained to large tables to prevent theft.
When my Lord walked the dusty roads of Judea under the watchful eyes of roman occupiers he spoke gently, earnestly to those He met. He never published scrolls to appear in the self-help section of the temple.
When I think about how the world often equates western culture, especially the U.S., as “Christian” I wince. I love my country, but I know that the Lord God is not a U.S. citizen.
So, as I watched that ad for country worship music I felt a little like someone was spraying gold paint on glory.
Instead of a Christian, I’d rather be a Christ-follower. Even that term seems a little grandiose, as if my path is true and clear, that I am always steady behind my Lord.
I think it would be more accurate to call me "Jesus’ adopted little brother who is always needing to be bailed out of some fix he has gotten himself into."
Here is what I am:
I’m a middle-aged guy who has a troubled marriage, is on medication for depression, needs pills to fall asleep, has troubled children, and has trouble paying bills. My psoriasis makes my skin flake, split, bleed. I take inappropriate pride in my creativity and other gifts which are of no credit to me.
Too often I write stuff on this blog which examines some particular view or idea I have of my faith in pithy phrases gauged with an eye to rhetoric; I’m just a clever primate.
Now the little litany of woes I listed above aren’t there to extract pity from any who might read these words.
What I want to say is I love God and it really isn’t about the popular sentiments of my culture as shown via those concerts and commercials.
I love God. For real.
I’m a big screw up, and I know it.
I also know that I have a personal relationship with the Creator of all things. I don’t care if my heart is so screwed up that I can’t look like those folks on TV worshipping God so fervently that Time-Life Publications wants a piece of it.
All I care about is that I do feel that way, even when I feel like my personal life will never get fixed, never be right.
Sometimes I do.
Saw a commercial a little while ago. It was from Time-Life Publications for a series of Country Worship CDs. A whole series.
The songs they sampled were many I enjoy singing myself. There were smooth camera zooms of singers on stage and in studios singing joyfully, worshipfully.
I wondered how much they were really feeling about God as they sang into a studio microphone or to a cheering audience.
Now, I know it is possible to worship on a stage, to tune out one’s surroundings and open my heart to my Lord. But the commercialism of seeing folks who paid for concert tickets tied to a series of music CDs turned me off a little.
I guess it was the rapturous expression on some of their faces which felt a little forced, a little too much like acting. Sometimes I get tired of the Christian stuff.
There is a Christian bookstore on Division in Portland which is simply huge. It is filled with Christian self-help sections (quite the irony there), Christian jewelry, Christian bookmarks, Christian videos, Christian games, and a Bible for every type of person in nearly any circumstance.
Christianity is big business.
Once upon a time people only learned about our faith through word of mouth.
And when it was put into book form, it was a rare and precious thing, often chained to large tables to prevent theft.
When my Lord walked the dusty roads of Judea under the watchful eyes of roman occupiers he spoke gently, earnestly to those He met. He never published scrolls to appear in the self-help section of the temple.
When I think about how the world often equates western culture, especially the U.S., as “Christian” I wince. I love my country, but I know that the Lord God is not a U.S. citizen.
So, as I watched that ad for country worship music I felt a little like someone was spraying gold paint on glory.
Instead of a Christian, I’d rather be a Christ-follower. Even that term seems a little grandiose, as if my path is true and clear, that I am always steady behind my Lord.
I think it would be more accurate to call me "Jesus’ adopted little brother who is always needing to be bailed out of some fix he has gotten himself into."
Here is what I am:
I’m a middle-aged guy who has a troubled marriage, is on medication for depression, needs pills to fall asleep, has troubled children, and has trouble paying bills. My psoriasis makes my skin flake, split, bleed. I take inappropriate pride in my creativity and other gifts which are of no credit to me.
Too often I write stuff on this blog which examines some particular view or idea I have of my faith in pithy phrases gauged with an eye to rhetoric; I’m just a clever primate.
Now the little litany of woes I listed above aren’t there to extract pity from any who might read these words.
What I want to say is I love God and it really isn’t about the popular sentiments of my culture as shown via those concerts and commercials.
I love God. For real.
I’m a big screw up, and I know it.
I also know that I have a personal relationship with the Creator of all things. I don’t care if my heart is so screwed up that I can’t look like those folks on TV worshipping God so fervently that Time-Life Publications wants a piece of it.
All I care about is that I do feel that way, even when I feel like my personal life will never get fixed, never be right.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Shouts from a Mayfly
Every year my favorite magazine, Scientific American, puts out a special single topic publication. It’s not a regular issue, isn’t even on newsstands... it's something a little extra for guys like me. I look forward to getting them each December. This year’s issue is called “The Cosmic Life Cycle: Origins of the Universe.”
I have been reading stuff like that for a long time, and I always like getting more. Each time I read such articles it becomes a little clearer, a little more cohesive. I polish my understanding of the universe a little more. It is very exciting.
One cool thing about the articles in Scientific American is that they aren’t written by staff writers. The articles (not the columns of course) are written by the scientists who are actually doing the research, the experiments, analyzing the data, examining the evidence. It’s a front row seat to modern scientific thought.
To me it is thrilling knowing that our telescopes have found light that has been traveling toward us for over 14 billion years. It is a wondrous window into a time not long after the Creation.
The universe was so much different then. Galaxies were more egg shaped,, and made up of stars so much larger that they burned up their fuels in just aa few hundred thousand years. Andd in their death rattles breathed new, heavier, materials into the universe, into us. It was different then...
No heavy metals, just pretty much hydrogen and helium... galaxies weren’t the complex swirls we have today...
and there still washes over us the echo of the earlier enormous shout the universe gave as it cooled to the 3,000 degrees celsius necessary for electrons and protons to grab onto each other and begin the dance we call hydrogen.
(Patience please. I’m going somewhere with this.)
The universe is a rather improbable place. There is an amazing balancing act between the four laws of physics which permits such dances of physical material... and permits the formation and combustion of stars, and eventually the complex chemical interactions which has brought about the unlikely event of a fellow like myself tapping away at this plastic keyboard before a glowing screen.
There are further improbabilities as well. Galaxies are the natural source for the materials needed for life, but they don’t provide many hospitable places for us. It may be that most galaxies have inhospitable maelstroms at their centers, gigantic black holes spewing intense radiation through the small amount of material they spill off their enormous plates as they consume everything within reach.
It is fortunate that there are small eddies of relatively quiet backwaters where stars like our own can glide along and throw a solar umbrella over their tiny systems.
But as rare as that is, there are still at least 100 billion billion stars very much like our own.
All this complexity came out of the nearly perfectly smooth conditions of the early universe (the variation in the early universe was only ONE part per 100,000!). It was an orderly beginning of an imaginable hot well-stirred soup.
(Still with me?)
So, in this improbably fragile universe filled with enormous powers which gobble up stars like popcorn, we exist. Tiny creatures in a universe nearly 15 billion years old, and praying to the God of it all.
(Here it comes.)
Imagine the power and wisdom and majesty of mere servants of the Creator, angels, who have served Him before creation began.
Now imagine that their master, the being of pure love and power and glory beyond my ability to praise, is consoling me about my wife who is passed out in the bedroom after falling off the wagon.
Imagine that the God which sings the universe into existence strengthens me as I feed my children, and console my wife who, for the first time in recent memory told me, “I’m sorry,” and meant it. (She has also said some ugly things which demonstrate how much she is hurt, damaged.)
This being who glides through time as if it were nothing at all, pauses to tell me I am loved, as I helped my wife up from her place beside the toilet.
Part of me is very fearful.
Part of me is ready to jettison my marriage if it becomes clear that my wife is so bent on self-destruction that I cannot help her.
Part of me rejoices that my wife appears to be hitting bottom. Perhaps she might now look up.
Or perhaps not.
She thinks God is to blame for everything.
I know it has been our choices which have created the messes we all live in. The choices I make. The choices those close to us have made. And the choices of those we have never met.
I don’t know what to do right now. My heart is racing.
But I know that even though I live less than a hundred years, there are mighty beings, a triune God, who is listening to the shouting of this mayfly.
I have been reading stuff like that for a long time, and I always like getting more. Each time I read such articles it becomes a little clearer, a little more cohesive. I polish my understanding of the universe a little more. It is very exciting.
One cool thing about the articles in Scientific American is that they aren’t written by staff writers. The articles (not the columns of course) are written by the scientists who are actually doing the research, the experiments, analyzing the data, examining the evidence. It’s a front row seat to modern scientific thought.
To me it is thrilling knowing that our telescopes have found light that has been traveling toward us for over 14 billion years. It is a wondrous window into a time not long after the Creation.
The universe was so much different then. Galaxies were more egg shaped,, and made up of stars so much larger that they burned up their fuels in just aa few hundred thousand years. Andd in their death rattles breathed new, heavier, materials into the universe, into us. It was different then...
No heavy metals, just pretty much hydrogen and helium... galaxies weren’t the complex swirls we have today...
and there still washes over us the echo of the earlier enormous shout the universe gave as it cooled to the 3,000 degrees celsius necessary for electrons and protons to grab onto each other and begin the dance we call hydrogen.
(Patience please. I’m going somewhere with this.)
The universe is a rather improbable place. There is an amazing balancing act between the four laws of physics which permits such dances of physical material... and permits the formation and combustion of stars, and eventually the complex chemical interactions which has brought about the unlikely event of a fellow like myself tapping away at this plastic keyboard before a glowing screen.
There are further improbabilities as well. Galaxies are the natural source for the materials needed for life, but they don’t provide many hospitable places for us. It may be that most galaxies have inhospitable maelstroms at their centers, gigantic black holes spewing intense radiation through the small amount of material they spill off their enormous plates as they consume everything within reach.
It is fortunate that there are small eddies of relatively quiet backwaters where stars like our own can glide along and throw a solar umbrella over their tiny systems.
But as rare as that is, there are still at least 100 billion billion stars very much like our own.
All this complexity came out of the nearly perfectly smooth conditions of the early universe (the variation in the early universe was only ONE part per 100,000!). It was an orderly beginning of an imaginable hot well-stirred soup.
(Still with me?)
So, in this improbably fragile universe filled with enormous powers which gobble up stars like popcorn, we exist. Tiny creatures in a universe nearly 15 billion years old, and praying to the God of it all.
(Here it comes.)
Imagine the power and wisdom and majesty of mere servants of the Creator, angels, who have served Him before creation began.
Now imagine that their master, the being of pure love and power and glory beyond my ability to praise, is consoling me about my wife who is passed out in the bedroom after falling off the wagon.
Imagine that the God which sings the universe into existence strengthens me as I feed my children, and console my wife who, for the first time in recent memory told me, “I’m sorry,” and meant it. (She has also said some ugly things which demonstrate how much she is hurt, damaged.)
This being who glides through time as if it were nothing at all, pauses to tell me I am loved, as I helped my wife up from her place beside the toilet.
Part of me is very fearful.
Part of me is ready to jettison my marriage if it becomes clear that my wife is so bent on self-destruction that I cannot help her.
Part of me rejoices that my wife appears to be hitting bottom. Perhaps she might now look up.
Or perhaps not.
She thinks God is to blame for everything.
I know it has been our choices which have created the messes we all live in. The choices I make. The choices those close to us have made. And the choices of those we have never met.
I don’t know what to do right now. My heart is racing.
But I know that even though I live less than a hundred years, there are mighty beings, a triune God, who is listening to the shouting of this mayfly.
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