More Than Those

We sat there, perched a little over 9,000 ft - waiting. 

Our group had hiked up the evening before. It was the first time I’d climbed that high. My prairie-raised lungs and legs staunchly protested the abusing, but it had been worth it. Each turn brought stunning views causing frequent self-pinching.

It’s been over a year now...time’s pace never ceases to amazes me. I was a newcomer to the diverse state of California, a tyro to the “wilderness” of the Sierra’s (some more intrepidly inclined might laugh at the wilderness-ness of it).

Supper was had on a nook above the rocky steep. The 80 stroked its way on valley floor below twinkling Christmas-lit by headlights. An elegant sunset tucked us in, fully dressed snuggling sleeping bags, under cleft. Starry panorama dazzled us dreamland-ward. 

We greeted the morning before dawn. Absolutely nothing compares to waking up on top of the world (talk about the right side of bed:) Scrambling upward, wind whistled through hair and sweaters bringing us to instant alertness. Lake Tahoe, a muted jewel at early hours, slumbered pastel on the horizon. 

Sitting, shivering on craggy outcrop, we waited.

Sky eastward continued to change color. 

We waited. 

Waited eagerly for the golden ball, fire rising. 

We waited. 

Checking time on phone, counting seconds. 

We waited. 

And then...yellow warmth licking faces, eyes sparkling. It leaped, dancing across surrounding peaks, showering the world in sunlight.

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,

And in His word I do hope.

My soul waits for the Lord

More than those who watch for the morning—

Yes, more than those who watch for the morning. 

-Psalm 130: 5,6

Are we willing to wait for Him like that? 

Thanks for letting me use the picture, Adam:)

Insane Pilots, Heros, and Grace

The pilot rushes out of the cockpit screaming. Intercom crackles, "Restrain him!" You rip your seatbelt off and lunge. With the help of a few others, he's pinned to the floor until the plane lands. 

Grace. Can’t it be obvious sometimes? And other times, doesn’t it seem missing in action?

What of times when airplanes don’t land safely, or when mad men shoot through little kids, or when thousands die every day simply because they don’t have enough to eat? Where is grace then? 

Why is it, when grace is given, we feel we don’t deserve it? 

And why do we feel we’re owed something in its absence? 

How do we appreciate grace when it becomes the humdrum of everyday life? And how do we continue to see it when pain rips it from view? 

Not everyday will you tackle insane pilots, feel the pulse of heroism pump through veins, but everyday you can conquer insane thoughts - thoughts that kill grace, destroy it. Fear-producing, pride-inducing, sin-seducing thoughts that not only trap you, but others around you. The only way to overpower these nutty notions is to give thanks for the grace around you, regardless of how insignificant it may seem. 

Simple, you say? Well, grace might be harder to recognize than you think. These insane membranes have been on the rampage a long time.

You choose to remain in your seat and let them wreak havoc or lunge at them and pull them down - pull them down with gratitude. The choice is yours. Will you be a hero today? 

*a piece written for a writing course I'm attending in Austin, Tx. The subject line was given to me and I had to make it fit with my thought: grace. Many of the questions I ask - honestly, I don't have answers. "Sometimes the only way to understand is to fall on your knees and say you don't." That's where I am. Perhaps only by going lower, deeper can answers truly be found. 

9-Year Old's Eye Salve

I kneel among stacks of ornaments cutting ribbon for the tree. It has been a long day...a long week (and it’s only Tuesday). My friend kneels beside, helping me. His little body coursing with Advent adrenaline. We’re transforming the evergreen. 

“This is the first year we’ve ever designed our tree!” he exclaims. I smile. 

The doctor walks in from a late day at the office. He reads of exhaustion, lines of weariness and illness mark his face. 

“Daddy, what do you think of the tree?” bubbles the boy. 

“It’s nice,” comes the worn response. 

“What do you mean it’s nice, Daddy? Isn’t it beautiful?” 

I sit there, back turned to the doctor, staring at my scissors. There’s a long pause.

“Yes, it’s beautiful.” 

The tone of his response melts me inside. This man - busy, stressed, overburdened, sick, doctor, as well as president of a college - he sees it. He enters into the moment. It’s as if the world pauses and all that matters is the tree, the beauty of it. 

But it’s my little friend who captures my attention. His curly head bounces with glee, his eyes sparkle with wonder, glitter sprinkled across his nose and cheeks glistens with the reflections from the lights. He’s reflecting the beauty because he sees it, he revels in it. 

And I ask myself: 

When was last time I saw through the eyes of a child? 

When did I stop being a child? 

Why is it that small things of beauty no longer impress? Why does it take the precipice of the Grand Canyon, or the snow-topped Alps, or the translucent waters of Lake Tahoe to make me gape in awe? 

What if I could be stripped of my “adult” lenses and look at the world through the eyes of my friend? 

How would that change how I view life and how I view God? 

Could I reflect beauty because I see it, I’m willing to enter in? 

Hmm - and so I’ve pondered these thoughts all week. 

“Daddy, isn’t it beautiful?” 

Perhaps it’s time we pause the world, enter into the beauty of small things, and become small things of beauty.   

Messy Rooms and Gratitude

Packing. 

Time to review, revisit, relive. 

Letters, journals, books, keepsake boxes, pictures…somehow daily grind had erased those moments from my memory.

The room holds the appearance of Oklahoma tornado aftermath, but it's a place of healing - of remembering - of discovering that each phase, each step, each blowing wind of change has given more than it could ever take. That the gifts God gives only grow sweeter with time, with new chapters, with every turn of page. 

And yet I admit, it is easy to forget how blessed I am, how many beautiful people have played a part in forming the life of today. I find them here - in this mess of room. Voices from the past, voices I haven't heard in months, years…voices whose sound I can't even remember, but as I uncover and open memories, they still speak. I trace words with finger and tho the sound I can no longer define, I find the lessons just as true. And I smile. 

Yes, there is something about this taking from shelves and placing in boxes that teaches the heart a new element of gratitude. FaithTrips come in all shapes and sizes. This one comes with packing boxes…and I'm thankful.

Garden of Gifts

Muscles strain and strengthen under wheelbarrow loads of compost. 

Palms blister and heal gripping shovel, rake, and cultivator.

Back bends sore over hundreds of lettuce plantlings.  

Hands crack dry embracing the dead-life-giving soil. 

Smiles grow in this land...this land of the living. 

It isn’t paradise, but it’s the closest thing this side of the Jordan. 

It’s the place where the dead give life, where storm is greeted as warmly as sun, where man links hand with the Creator. 

It’s a farm...a garden. The place God created at the beginning of time and then cursed for our blessing. It’s where hearts of stony self-service break into the rocks of life-giving, life-pouring, life-living gifts. Where child learns with parent and grandparent to give thanks in everything, to care for everything. To weep and laugh, to mourn and dance...to live life to its fullest. 

Oh, and others might scorn the simplicity, the humility, the sacred duty of those who kneel and pour their lives back into the ground they came from. They might deride the sweat, the tears shed over plants lost, the blending of hearts with the Creator - because they’re too busy to realize the glory in it.  

I’m guilty of that attitude...but something, Someone, is changing that. 

It has to do with gifts...counting them. Not gifts desired, but gifts given.

Gifts for those who wish to see - who take the time to see. Gifts for those who give thanks...in everything.

The Morning After...

It’s dark. The sun is a late riser these mornings. Seems it can’t get enough rest. I empathize. 

A train rumbles the earth in the distance howling its horn among the hills. 

Wind plays harmonies through my window screen breathing the music morning yawns. 

It’s October 23, 2012... 

And we’re still here. 

Why? 

Time hasn’t stopped ticking, but have we stopped caring?

Is this day just another mark on the calendar? Another day of classes, work, busyness – or is it a reminder that should break our hearts, bend our knees? 

168 years. 

What are we doing? 

Have we’ve dwelt among the palaces of Egypt so long that we’ve “mistaken God’s purpose” (Edu 62)?

Is it possible that we need to unlearn, relearn...re-educate?

“Now, as never before, we need to understand the true science of education. If we fail to understand this we shall never have a place in the kingdom of God.” (U.T., July 8, 1897)

Can we afford not to? 

Skies turn gray blue. The sun rubs its eyes awake. Heavy, dark clouds race on – morning rush hour on the prairies of Oklahoma. 

Do you see the need? 

Birds sing.

Sky metamorphosis to pinks and orange. 

It’s light. 

It’s time to see.
  

"That's One Small Step For Man..."

"First, I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the Moon and returning him safely to the Earth."

Sound familiar? If you're a history or space guru I would imagine you have those words memorized. 

That's right. 

John F. Kennedy.  

The day was May 25, 1961. Our country was charged with the task of beating the Soviets in the space race of putting a man on the moon. The command from the president was unambiguous and yet absolutely ridiculous at the same time. 

It would take billions of dollars, thousands of people, and technology that hadn't been invented yet. 

9 years. 

That's all the time they had been given. 

Seemingly impossible. 

July 21, 1969. 

Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin make history.

"That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." -Neil Armstrong

America won! 

*all the space buffs cheer again (even though they could recite the story in their sleep)*

There's something thrilling about space work. It somehow manages to fascinate people world-over. 

But you know…there's another command yet to be fulfilled. 

The Commander of Chiefs has spoken…unambiguously. 

"Success in any line demands a definite aim. He who would achieve true success in life must keep steadily in view the aim worthy of his endeavor. Such an aim is set before the youth of today. The heaven-appointed purpose of giving the gospel to the world in this generation is the noblest that can appeal to any human being." Education 262

Notice the deadline is set. "…in this generation" 

Seemingly impossible. 

So why aren't we busting at the seams with enthusiasm over this command like our space friends are over conquering the moon?

Simple. 

It's not history. 

It's because our parents have read this quote, and their parents have read this quote, and their parents have read this quote…

And now we read it and say, "Uh huh…blah blah blah. It sounds so good, but really? C'mon, give us something more within our scope of capability." 

Ok, put a man on the moon. 

"Poor parallel. That's already been done. Scientists have proved it." 

Yes, but think how they must have felt before they proved it. 

JFK had no clue how to put a man on the moon any more than a fish can understand what it's like to be a bird. 

Realize though that our Commander and Chief knows how to accomplish His command. 

It has to do with one word: Education.

(p.s. we'll we get around to eucharisteo…that's coming a little later)