rain king

The morning has brought heavy, steady rain.

At 8 o'clock, I sat in stillness on the front porch, resting in an old, white rusty chair, watching the rain batter the streets. When granted a moment's reprieve, I ran inside, first downstairs then up, lassoing a full bag of trash, dropping it on the corner.

The storm has darkened the house where no one else is home. Anchored in the dining room, it feels as if I'm working by candlelight, yet surrounded by paperwork and books and bright computer screens and coffee cups and boxes containing drums.

Three candles sit unused in the center of the table.

Lightening struck moments ago, but it couldn't rival last week's 5:31 a.m. thunderous wake up call, when the sounds of the storm sprung my sleeping body upright 90 degrees, like it was raising me from the dead.

I try my best to work while listening to Ray LaMontagne and the Counting Crows, because they seem to understand the rain better than the others. I think of a flood-like rain during my youth, which filled the outer rims of the parsonage parking lot, my brother and I nearly swimming in pools of muddy water.

In the photo, you can still see it in our faces; there was no other place we'd rather be.

Father's Day

“May the Lord bless you and keep you; May the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious unto you; May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you everlasting peace. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

-My Father, adapted from Numbers 6:24-26

At the end of each sermon, my father used to speak these words from the pulpit.

When he would hit the “Amen,” there would be a pause, his voice would drop what seemed like a full octave, and he would finish in a rhythm that was always familiar, never different.

Oftentimes, Steve and I would take a break from our mischievous back pew Sunday routine, look up and mouth the words; we knew they were coming. It signaled the end of the service, there would only be one hymn left, at which time we could evaporate through the back staircase and be first in line for the potluck.

But until recently, the weight of these words, spoken week after week, had failed to become a part of me. It wasn’t until I left the church and returned that they began to take on an almost mystical meaning.

It wasn’t until I looked back that I realized I almost missed the blessing.

two kinds of wood

words: a thank you

Yesterday, a good friend blessed me with the written word. The letter (cleverly disguised as email) was beyond encouraging, well thought out, not shot wildly from the hip. In short, it was authentic. My own words could not articulate this weighty gratitude.

My only response was to offer marinating musings that I'd never shared with anyone before. There was great power in the exchange, built on trust and brotherhood and confidence, the shared belief that we're here to build each other up, not to tear each other down.

And I was built up. For me, my friend became the hands and feet.

I've been reading Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art by Madeline L'Engle, and I can't recommend this book enough. It cost 50 cents at a neighborhood book estate sale, but the value of art is not based on the "world's currency," as L'Engle says.

L'Engle is an amazing woman--intelligent, joyful, graceful, creative and talented--and perhaps more than any other writer, has managed to find words that speak to the friction of imagination, the frustration in the fingers, the lyrics to the once lost melody.

island living

I sit cross-legged in a wide field of green grass, overlooking the port where Ferries bring in tourists by the hundreds. Taxi cabs made of horse and trailer bring people here and there, while one-speed bicycles with baskets are the new Mercedes.

I’ve driven over the Mackinac Bridge more times than I can count, but I’ve never been to its aptly named island. This is a place constructed for tourists, not natives, like you’d never see New Yorkers marvel at its skyscrapers, or Parisians drop jaw at sight of the Eiffel Tower. That doesn’t rob her of her beauty; it’s just different.

In a way, this island links my past and present. She lies in limbo of the two signature places I’ve called home, but is completely other.

The tulips are in bloom, proudly displaying their amazing colors with passersby. The skies are clear and the sun lends its heat, while mansions line the streets, standing tall with proud heritage and boasting of its elegance. We are surrounded by water, and it is beautiful.

We often struggle relating past and present, but today, in this field, they seem to collide. Three hours to the east, in my hometown, grew a boy haunted with insecurity, tight religion and anger. There is so much in our lives we wish to take back, but our efforts prove futile. Our pasts are as much a part of us as our DNA.

Three hours to the southwest, in the mirror, I see a new man, though the roots of youth are the weeds of life. I brought along a journal I penned three years ago (and stopped two years and ten months ago), and shuffled through its pages, ridden with anxiety, doubt and fear, but ultimately hope. We were made for more.

I thought I would marry a particular girl on this island, and after that dream dissolved and faded away, on many treks over the bridge, I would look toward the island and imagine how different life would be had that been the path.

To be completely unoriginal, the road taken instead, "Has made all the difference.”

I take rest knowing something completely “Other” has bridged our past, is present, and has paved a promised future for those who travel there.

He is the same yesterday, today and forever; a safe haven from fierce storms and life's blizzards. In a way, His “Otherness” is much like this; for in Him we are finally free to slow down, walk slowly, breathe fully, and listen more attentively to The Way.

the way

i am: vicenarian

"A twentysomething is a person in the age group of 20 to 29. Such a person may also be termed a vicenarian." (Wikipedia)

to travel the earth

you fed me a taste of your sweet earth
now, nine months have passed
waiting to be born

again
desperate
to

see with my own eyes
touch with my own hands
hear with my own ears
feel our souls intertwined

your mysteries sprinkled across this globe
and joy rising from lakes of tears

widows and sages

You haven’t lived until two women over 80 years-old suggest you spend the night at their retirement home.

And sleep in-between them.

Seriously. They asked. “We’re just two old ladies giving you a hard time,” Lois chuckled. Clara nodded in agreement. Blazing red, I tried to change the subject.

Tonight Lois told me I could pass for a 15-year-old, sang a hymn twice because Dave had forgotten we just sang it, and passed around my father’s cornet like a hash pipe at a Grateful Dead concert—everyone took a hit.

This was another night at Oakcrest Manor, another experience where I’m reminded that life isn’t about me, where I often enter with a poor attitude and exit blessed, where widows and sages remind me that life is sweet, down to the last minute.

Clara reminds me that despite cultural norms, love can last. Clara and her husband Harold, who passed away on the last day of February, were married for 67 years.

Hazel reminds me that some things stick. She hadn’t touched a trumpet in over 60 years after her parents sold her high school trumpet for money. Tonight, I brought my cornet, per her request, and she nearly made it up the B-flat scale. We clapped and cheered her on.

Lois reminds me that music is a gift. Every visit, she plays the electric piano for us (either with the book or by memory), and stretches our vocal chords on ageless hymns. The singing doesn’t always sound pretty, but there’s beauty in the offering.

Dave reminds me that humor is life’s medicine. “Do you know where there’s baseball in the Bible?,” he asks us. “In the big-inning.” We roar. Then Dave nails first-timer Tim with another of his signature moves, “Do you know I used to sing opposite of Bing Crosby?”

“Yeah, he sang well and I sang opposite.” Bam! Get em' Dave.

Like the hymn we repeated tonight, like the stories I’ve told before and will tell again, we will sing with our friends at Oakcrest, continuing to bring life to one another.

beauty in a wicked world

I don't watch the news. It's too depressing.

But yesterday, I had to watch. Late at night, I draped myself with blankets, keeping our cold basement at bay, and watched Larry King question the world, "What the hell happened?"

Experts like Dr. Phil hypothesized about potential psychological problems of the murderer--the one who executed nearly three dozen innocent on a frosty Virginia morning.

But nobody mentioned the fall.

Nobody acknowledged that something is wrong with the world.

With humanity.

With us.

In the aftermath of these events, for some, hope feels like a dream, a fairy tale, a myth.

I can't imagine the deep pain that will follow the wounds that have been inflicted.

Our hearts break over these tragedies, but still, those of us who hold onto the Hope of Redemption know, as Amos Lee sings, "Nothing is more powerful than beauty in a wicked world."

isn't she beautiful?

I've never seen anything like this before.

Over fifty people helped the Buck's move on Saturday.

Jason commented that the church is functioning like it was intended to.

Isn't she beautiful?

God is good

I've had many experiences over the past 10 months that have literally floored me. The past two weeks have produced an abundance of them. Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen. (Ephesians 3:20-21)

Do Not Worry

Then Jesus said to his disciples: "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear. Life is more than food, and the body more than clothes. Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds! Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? Since you cannot do this very little thing, why do you worry about the rest?

"Consider how the lilies grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you, O you of little faith! And do not set your heart on what you will eat or drink; do not worry about it. For the pagan world runs after all such things, and your Father knows that you need them. But seek his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well. (Luke 12:22-34)