THE single-most addictive video I've ever watched. Or maybe it just doesn't take much to fascinate me...
Sunday, May 27, 2007
"Good stuff" from Billy Sprague...
I found this while cleaning out some files this morning...thought I'd share.
I don’t know how much or which prayers influence or change God’s mind. I am aware that the Bible says “The Lord is near. Do no be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, present your requests to God…” Perhaps, as CS Lewis maintained, prayer may have more to do with influencing me than God anyway.
I still pray for traveling mercies when a friend leaves on a trip. I pray for troubled marriages to be mended. Some of them are, and some end in divorce. In that event we pray for their kids, or “Dear God, don’t let their wounds be anchors they have to drag along. Turn them to teachers and treasures they can carry with them.”
Prayer is a bulletin board where I post memos to the Almighty. It is not a chess game where I negotiate to get God to see or do things my way. He knows how it looks through my eyes. He knows how to manage a universe. Prayer isn’t a way to see things like He does. It’s a refuge. An oasis of spiritual life. When I don’t go there, I dry up. And brown. Like my yard.
I don’t go very long without water. Sometimes, though, I neglect or avoid prayer deliberately, like ignoring my wife or a friend because of an issue I don’t want to face. But the restless, unnatural isolation of life as a lone ranger draws me back like a thirst. A thirst for intimacy, I suppose. For nearness, acceptance, consolation. Sometimes in prayer, the lightness and calm euphoria return.
The longer I live, the shorter my prayers become. At least the spoken part. Sometimes it’s just stargazing and saying “Thanks for the evening, it was heavenly.” Prayer becomes listening more than petitioning. It is like sitting by a stream. Watching the movement. Unable to read the hieroglyphic of light on the surface, but consoled by it nonetheless. “I pour out my heart like water” the prophet Jeremiah said. Sometimes in tears. Sometimes in anger or confusion. Often in gratitude. Often in silence. Always in longing. I wait. The river of God bends toward me. Or I am moved toward it—toward the presence of God. Whenever this happens, the current carries me. To deep, still water. And I green.
I don’t know how much or which prayers influence or change God’s mind. I am aware that the Bible says “The Lord is near. Do no be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, present your requests to God…” Perhaps, as CS Lewis maintained, prayer may have more to do with influencing me than God anyway.
I still pray for traveling mercies when a friend leaves on a trip. I pray for troubled marriages to be mended. Some of them are, and some end in divorce. In that event we pray for their kids, or “Dear God, don’t let their wounds be anchors they have to drag along. Turn them to teachers and treasures they can carry with them.”
Prayer is a bulletin board where I post memos to the Almighty. It is not a chess game where I negotiate to get God to see or do things my way. He knows how it looks through my eyes. He knows how to manage a universe. Prayer isn’t a way to see things like He does. It’s a refuge. An oasis of spiritual life. When I don’t go there, I dry up. And brown. Like my yard.
I don’t go very long without water. Sometimes, though, I neglect or avoid prayer deliberately, like ignoring my wife or a friend because of an issue I don’t want to face. But the restless, unnatural isolation of life as a lone ranger draws me back like a thirst. A thirst for intimacy, I suppose. For nearness, acceptance, consolation. Sometimes in prayer, the lightness and calm euphoria return.
The longer I live, the shorter my prayers become. At least the spoken part. Sometimes it’s just stargazing and saying “Thanks for the evening, it was heavenly.” Prayer becomes listening more than petitioning. It is like sitting by a stream. Watching the movement. Unable to read the hieroglyphic of light on the surface, but consoled by it nonetheless. “I pour out my heart like water” the prophet Jeremiah said. Sometimes in tears. Sometimes in anger or confusion. Often in gratitude. Often in silence. Always in longing. I wait. The river of God bends toward me. Or I am moved toward it—toward the presence of God. Whenever this happens, the current carries me. To deep, still water. And I green.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Walking in Memph...uhh, Fairfield
(I have a feeling this may get random...be forewarned!)
I wear a copper pendant around my neck that has "Choose Your Life" engraved on it. It was a birthday gift to myself...a little reminder that I've spent most of the past 43 years allowing others to choose, or at least heavily influence, my life for me. Time to step up to the plate, make the choices...and, oh yes, assume the responsibility for those choices.
So, I choose my life. What does that mean? I choose to lose 20 pounds. I choose the hairstyle (and color!) that *I* like. I choose to become a fairy princess. Well...maybe not. ;-) I choose to eat a big bowl of strawberry trifle right before I go to bed and NOT feel guilty about it. (Somehow that doesn't seem to go along with the whole "lose 20 pounds thing, though...oh, well!) On my weight loss chart, I've written "Choose your life; LIVE your choices" at the top as a reminder that the choices are fine, but until I actually step into them and live them out, they're not worth a whole lot. I look at that chart every day...and see the same 3 pounds disappearing, then reappearing as I make choices to eat healthily or not.
It's also a rather grim reminder to me that I committed, when I started the diet thing, to actually start walking as well. That was over a month ago. I wake up every morning and think "I should get up and walk today", but then I roll over and steal another 30 minutes of sleep...and break my commitment yet again. But, tonight I dug through the closet for my walking shoes...and I walked. Only for about 20 minutes, but it was a start. Living a choice. Will I choose to live it tomorrow?
The walk itself was a bit interesting. I haven't had new glasses in over 2 years and I'm feeling it more desperately every day. The lenses are scratched and my vision has changed enough that I'm to the point I almost see better without the glasses than with them--a sad state of affairs! Because of the scarring from my bout with optic neuritis, I also see in 2 different colors(one eye sees pinker--gives "looking at the world through rose-colored glasses" a whole new slant!!) and (hard to explain) almost 2 different "places"--like one of those "fractured" pieces of artwork where two pictures are sliced up and intermingled and kinda wavy...it's a weird sensation. And it's worse at night. So, there I am, walking down dark sidewalks, trying to determine if I'm seeing real "hills and valleys" in the concrete or if it's just my odd way of seeing the world.
And, I was meandering through some territory I hadn't seen from a walker's viewpoint for...over 30 years, I guess--the same street my sister and I used to walk down after school every day. That brought back some grade school memories! Much has changed, much has remained the same--isn't that just like life in general?
When we were young, one of the houses had HUGE evergreens covering every inch of the front, except for a tiny little opening for the narrow sidwalk leading to the front door--the shrubs are gone now and the house is a beautiful little jewel...how sad that it was hidden all those years. Down the block, I stood on the bridge where my first "crush" (through a mediator, of course!) told me that he liked me--and I watched the water sparkle in the dim glow of the streetlight. Life changes. Life stays the same.
It's sometimes good to revisit old "stuff" from a fresh, more mature perspective. It's sometimes good to walk through life, instead of always speeding down the street at a breakneck pace. And, it's sometimes good to stop and smell the flowers and listen to the water gurgling over the rocks and pet the cat that jumps out at you from behind the bridge. I'm glad I chose, at least for one night, to slow down a little.
I wear a copper pendant around my neck that has "Choose Your Life" engraved on it. It was a birthday gift to myself...a little reminder that I've spent most of the past 43 years allowing others to choose, or at least heavily influence, my life for me. Time to step up to the plate, make the choices...and, oh yes, assume the responsibility for those choices.
So, I choose my life. What does that mean? I choose to lose 20 pounds. I choose the hairstyle (and color!) that *I* like. I choose to become a fairy princess. Well...maybe not. ;-) I choose to eat a big bowl of strawberry trifle right before I go to bed and NOT feel guilty about it. (Somehow that doesn't seem to go along with the whole "lose 20 pounds thing, though...oh, well!) On my weight loss chart, I've written "Choose your life; LIVE your choices" at the top as a reminder that the choices are fine, but until I actually step into them and live them out, they're not worth a whole lot. I look at that chart every day...and see the same 3 pounds disappearing, then reappearing as I make choices to eat healthily or not.
It's also a rather grim reminder to me that I committed, when I started the diet thing, to actually start walking as well. That was over a month ago. I wake up every morning and think "I should get up and walk today", but then I roll over and steal another 30 minutes of sleep...and break my commitment yet again. But, tonight I dug through the closet for my walking shoes...and I walked. Only for about 20 minutes, but it was a start. Living a choice. Will I choose to live it tomorrow?
The walk itself was a bit interesting. I haven't had new glasses in over 2 years and I'm feeling it more desperately every day. The lenses are scratched and my vision has changed enough that I'm to the point I almost see better without the glasses than with them--a sad state of affairs! Because of the scarring from my bout with optic neuritis, I also see in 2 different colors(one eye sees pinker--gives "looking at the world through rose-colored glasses" a whole new slant!!) and (hard to explain) almost 2 different "places"--like one of those "fractured" pieces of artwork where two pictures are sliced up and intermingled and kinda wavy...it's a weird sensation. And it's worse at night. So, there I am, walking down dark sidewalks, trying to determine if I'm seeing real "hills and valleys" in the concrete or if it's just my odd way of seeing the world.
And, I was meandering through some territory I hadn't seen from a walker's viewpoint for...over 30 years, I guess--the same street my sister and I used to walk down after school every day. That brought back some grade school memories! Much has changed, much has remained the same--isn't that just like life in general?
When we were young, one of the houses had HUGE evergreens covering every inch of the front, except for a tiny little opening for the narrow sidwalk leading to the front door--the shrubs are gone now and the house is a beautiful little jewel...how sad that it was hidden all those years. Down the block, I stood on the bridge where my first "crush" (through a mediator, of course!) told me that he liked me--and I watched the water sparkle in the dim glow of the streetlight. Life changes. Life stays the same.
It's sometimes good to revisit old "stuff" from a fresh, more mature perspective. It's sometimes good to walk through life, instead of always speeding down the street at a breakneck pace. And, it's sometimes good to stop and smell the flowers and listen to the water gurgling over the rocks and pet the cat that jumps out at you from behind the bridge. I'm glad I chose, at least for one night, to slow down a little.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Chasing Mississippi
(If you're a Dave Barnes fan, you'll recognize that title. If not...it's okay, because this has absolutely nothing to do with Dave Barnes, anyway.) :-)
Chasing Mississippi. Gulfport, actually. 554 Camp Avenue to be precise. God's Katrina Kitchen. Maybe I'm chasing God (I hope so) and think he's camping there for awhile. Actually, I know he is. And I want to be camping there with him.
So, I spent my third week on the Gulf Coast (my second week at GKK) April 21-28. I can't pinpoint a handful, or even one, "spectacular" thing that happened, but it was one of the most incredible, life-changing experiences I've ever had. And life-changing in a deeply personal way...even if I tried, even if I wanted to, I wouldn't have the words to describe what's "different" in me now. I just know it...and God knows it...and that's enough for now.
I couldn't have asked for a better bunch of people to spend a week with. There were several of us that really bonded immediately--we stayed up late every night (all night one night), talking about "life, the universe and everything". We talked, we listened, we bickered, we cried, we laughed. A lot. Real "community". REAL "family".
There's SO much need in the Gulfport area...there are still 30000 people who are not back in their homes. There are over 300 work projects on the GKK list that haven't even been touched yet...and funding has slacked off as people assume that things are back to "normal" and quit giving. The beachfront, except for where the casinos/hotels have been rebuilt, still mostly looks like a bombed-out war zone. Homeless people are living under the pier because there are no shelters. The suicide rate has skyrocketed lately, because people are past the point of desperation and just can't handle it anymore. FEMA has granted everyone another six months to stay in their trailers, but they're saying September is IT. If you don't have anywhere to go, too bad. Your taxpayer dollars at work, ladies and gentlemen.
My heart is broken for these people. It's so easy to feel overwhelmed when you look at the enormous need in the area, but when you break it down and look at the individuals...they're people just like you and me. Other cells in the body of Christ. People who, before Katrina, were living lives similar to mine. My mom asked me if there's really any use in me continuing to go down to work if nothing is changing, but things ARE changing...slowly, family by family, person by person. They are the starfish being thrown back in the water--and I have to do my part. I may not be able to rebuild houses, but I can make a mean beef stroganoff and banana pudding and I can listen and smile and hug and love. I can help mend hearts. I can be the hands and feet and voice of Jesus.
It was my intention to go to Montana for a vacation this summer. Instead, I'm going be camping with God and his people (and at least a million mosquitos) at 544 Camp Avenue, Gulfport, Mississippi. And I don't think I'm going to miss Montana at all.
Chasing Mississippi. Gulfport, actually. 554 Camp Avenue to be precise. God's Katrina Kitchen. Maybe I'm chasing God (I hope so) and think he's camping there for awhile. Actually, I know he is. And I want to be camping there with him.
So, I spent my third week on the Gulf Coast (my second week at GKK) April 21-28. I can't pinpoint a handful, or even one, "spectacular" thing that happened, but it was one of the most incredible, life-changing experiences I've ever had. And life-changing in a deeply personal way...even if I tried, even if I wanted to, I wouldn't have the words to describe what's "different" in me now. I just know it...and God knows it...and that's enough for now.
I couldn't have asked for a better bunch of people to spend a week with. There were several of us that really bonded immediately--we stayed up late every night (all night one night), talking about "life, the universe and everything". We talked, we listened, we bickered, we cried, we laughed. A lot. Real "community". REAL "family".
There's SO much need in the Gulfport area...there are still 30000 people who are not back in their homes. There are over 300 work projects on the GKK list that haven't even been touched yet...and funding has slacked off as people assume that things are back to "normal" and quit giving. The beachfront, except for where the casinos/hotels have been rebuilt, still mostly looks like a bombed-out war zone. Homeless people are living under the pier because there are no shelters. The suicide rate has skyrocketed lately, because people are past the point of desperation and just can't handle it anymore. FEMA has granted everyone another six months to stay in their trailers, but they're saying September is IT. If you don't have anywhere to go, too bad. Your taxpayer dollars at work, ladies and gentlemen.
My heart is broken for these people. It's so easy to feel overwhelmed when you look at the enormous need in the area, but when you break it down and look at the individuals...they're people just like you and me. Other cells in the body of Christ. People who, before Katrina, were living lives similar to mine. My mom asked me if there's really any use in me continuing to go down to work if nothing is changing, but things ARE changing...slowly, family by family, person by person. They are the starfish being thrown back in the water--and I have to do my part. I may not be able to rebuild houses, but I can make a mean beef stroganoff and banana pudding and I can listen and smile and hug and love. I can help mend hearts. I can be the hands and feet and voice of Jesus.
It was my intention to go to Montana for a vacation this summer. Instead, I'm going be camping with God and his people (and at least a million mosquitos) at 544 Camp Avenue, Gulfport, Mississippi. And I don't think I'm going to miss Montana at all.
Actually...
...let me quote a little from the link in my previous post. This is seriously good stuff. From "Love in the Key of Longbrake"--one of the best blogs I've read.
I think there’s a reason why Jesus said Don’t judge, or you’ll be judged. Forgive, and you’ll be forgiven. It’s terribly easy for me to judge people, especially those that I don’t know. Most of it probably comes out of pride or insecuritiesHe’s going too slow. She’s so loud. They are in everyone’s way. She’s rich and she knows it. If he would just have some self respect. Why does she dress like that? He’s always talking.
But everyone has a story. Everyone has a past. Everybody has been shaped by something. One parent. No parents. Economic situation. Rape. Culture. Orphaned. Pain. Struggle. Lack of pain and struggle. Death. Divorce. Privilege. Popularity. People are shaped by situations and the people that surround them.
Everyone has a story.
And when you know someone’s story, it changes everything, doesn’t it? Your friends who act certain ways, ways which would annoy you if they were from a stranger, are given grace because you know them. You understand them. He acts that way because of this. And she does those things because of that. You understand. Everyone who knows them understands.
It’s the strangers, though…
When we come to the realization that everyone has a story, it changes how we treat people. When you see a man on a plane being abnormally loud, you know that he is that way because of something in his past, and that thing most likely isn’t his fault. Or maybe it is. Either way, there’s a story, and because there’s a story, there is grace.
And if I went through every day with this mentality, would it change me? Would I act differently? Would people perceive me to be someone new? Someone different?
And what if an entire community embraced this idea? I think it might change the world.
I want to be part of that kind of community--how about you?
I was reminded of this yesterday when I was on a plane, coming home from Dallas. There was an older lady sitting in an aisle seat a couple of rows ahead of me. Before the plane took off, she passed out. Fell over forwards and was kind of dangling in midair. The woman sitting beside her? She turned her head the other way and ignored her. My seatmate summoned the flight attendant to check on the woman. They ended up moving her to a window seat where she had somewhere she could lean and the flight attendant asked the woman now sitting next to her to keep an eye on her--and she agreed to do so.
I couldn't see her from where I was sitting, but when we landed and I stood up, the poor lady was passed out again...doubled over, head hanging down between her legs. Her seatmate who had agreed to watch over her? She got up, grabbed her bags and marched down the aisle out of the plane--didn't even bother to try to rouse her. I was actually afraid she was dead until I saw her move her arm. The kind flight attendant helped her out of the plane and into a wheelchair--the woman was so frail, her ankles were not much bigger than my wrists--she was obviously seriously ill. The general consensus of those sitting around her was that she was drunk (possible, of course)...and therefore should be ignored and allowed to flop around like a ragdoll while she was unconscious.
What if she WAS intoxicated? What's her story? Maybe she has cancer and the treatments make her so ill, the only way she can deal with it is to medicate it with alcohol. Maybe she's so terrified of flying, it's the only way she'll get on a plane. Maybe she wasn't drunk at all and is just so sick from whatever is obviously wasting her body away to nothing, she just doesn't have the energy to act "normal" (whatever that is). Does intoxication (or anything, really) negate our responsibility to show grace?
I think there’s a reason why Jesus said Don’t judge, or you’ll be judged. Forgive, and you’ll be forgiven. It’s terribly easy for me to judge people, especially those that I don’t know. Most of it probably comes out of pride or insecuritiesHe’s going too slow. She’s so loud. They are in everyone’s way. She’s rich and she knows it. If he would just have some self respect. Why does she dress like that? He’s always talking.
But everyone has a story. Everyone has a past. Everybody has been shaped by something. One parent. No parents. Economic situation. Rape. Culture. Orphaned. Pain. Struggle. Lack of pain and struggle. Death. Divorce. Privilege. Popularity. People are shaped by situations and the people that surround them.
Everyone has a story.
And when you know someone’s story, it changes everything, doesn’t it? Your friends who act certain ways, ways which would annoy you if they were from a stranger, are given grace because you know them. You understand them. He acts that way because of this. And she does those things because of that. You understand. Everyone who knows them understands.
It’s the strangers, though…
When we come to the realization that everyone has a story, it changes how we treat people. When you see a man on a plane being abnormally loud, you know that he is that way because of something in his past, and that thing most likely isn’t his fault. Or maybe it is. Either way, there’s a story, and because there’s a story, there is grace.
And if I went through every day with this mentality, would it change me? Would I act differently? Would people perceive me to be someone new? Someone different?
And what if an entire community embraced this idea? I think it might change the world.
I want to be part of that kind of community--how about you?
I was reminded of this yesterday when I was on a plane, coming home from Dallas. There was an older lady sitting in an aisle seat a couple of rows ahead of me. Before the plane took off, she passed out. Fell over forwards and was kind of dangling in midair. The woman sitting beside her? She turned her head the other way and ignored her. My seatmate summoned the flight attendant to check on the woman. They ended up moving her to a window seat where she had somewhere she could lean and the flight attendant asked the woman now sitting next to her to keep an eye on her--and she agreed to do so.
I couldn't see her from where I was sitting, but when we landed and I stood up, the poor lady was passed out again...doubled over, head hanging down between her legs. Her seatmate who had agreed to watch over her? She got up, grabbed her bags and marched down the aisle out of the plane--didn't even bother to try to rouse her. I was actually afraid she was dead until I saw her move her arm. The kind flight attendant helped her out of the plane and into a wheelchair--the woman was so frail, her ankles were not much bigger than my wrists--she was obviously seriously ill. The general consensus of those sitting around her was that she was drunk (possible, of course)...and therefore should be ignored and allowed to flop around like a ragdoll while she was unconscious.
What if she WAS intoxicated? What's her story? Maybe she has cancer and the treatments make her so ill, the only way she can deal with it is to medicate it with alcohol. Maybe she's so terrified of flying, it's the only way she'll get on a plane. Maybe she wasn't drunk at all and is just so sick from whatever is obviously wasting her body away to nothing, she just doesn't have the energy to act "normal" (whatever that is). Does intoxication (or anything, really) negate our responsibility to show grace?
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Read this...
http://www.thelongbrake.com/blog/2007/05/12/her-story-his-story/
I couldn't say it any better myself. So, I won't even try. Just read it.
I couldn't say it any better myself. So, I won't even try. Just read it.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Thursday, May 03, 2007
I'm so excited!!
I now owe less than $1800 on my Jeep!! Seems like I've been paying on it forever--well, I HAVE actually been making car payments forever, because I've always traded the vehicle I had as soon as I made the last payment. I'm keeping my little cactus green Liberty--partly because it's a Renegade like me and mostly because I still love it today as much as I did the day I bought it. Just a few more payments and it's mine, ALL MINE! It's good to see a little more light at the end of the "debt-free" tunnel.
It doesn't take much to amuse me...
I currently have a total of 912 songs on my IPod. For whatever reason (I'm a little OCD at times), I decided recently to listen to EVERY song in alphabetical order. Fortunately, I had a 10 1/2 hour drive to and from Mississippi last week...you can listen to a lot of music when you're on the road that long.
So, I'm on the way home, with my playlist somewhere in the 800s. As I crossed the Mississippi/Tennessee state line, at the very second that I passed the "Memphis City Limit" sign, the song "Walking In Memphis" started playing and I started laughing. I mean, out of 912 songs, what's the possibility of that happening? (If you're a probability and statistics person, you can figure it out if you'd like and let me know.) :-)
God has a great sense of humor--I'm glad he knows what makes me laugh...and I'm glad he chooses to randomly toss those little things in my path at times when I need a good laugh. I'd spent the first 3 hours of my drive home in tears, so I needed that.
So, I'm on the way home, with my playlist somewhere in the 800s. As I crossed the Mississippi/Tennessee state line, at the very second that I passed the "Memphis City Limit" sign, the song "Walking In Memphis" started playing and I started laughing. I mean, out of 912 songs, what's the possibility of that happening? (If you're a probability and statistics person, you can figure it out if you'd like and let me know.) :-)
God has a great sense of humor--I'm glad he knows what makes me laugh...and I'm glad he chooses to randomly toss those little things in my path at times when I need a good laugh. I'd spent the first 3 hours of my drive home in tears, so I needed that.
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