admin

November 19, 2015August 28, 2017

Thanksgiving remembered

“Thanksgiving? Tomorrow?” Taken off guard I blurted out my discovery.

The exclamation caught my wife’s attention. Really? Are you sure?

Ann and I had arrived in East Africa in May. Six weeks later we welcomed our first child, Julie. This was the land we would call home. We were to help train leaders in a growing Kenyan church. I ventured into language studies. By November my Swahili classes were in full swing.

That Wednesday, after a usual day of class I returned to our apartment. I casually glanced at a calendar we brought with us on our move from America.

The arrival of our traditional holiday was so unexpected. I grew mildly indignant – an irrational feeling but happening just the same.

Tomorrow. And Swahili classes are still on? Well. . .

The contest inside my head was brief.

“Honey,” I announced, “tomorrow I’m cutting class. How about a holiday picnic!”

Thanksgiving of 1972 was gorgeous. Ann bundled Julie in a colorful blanket. Earlier the same year KFC had launched their finger-lickin’ enterprise in Nairobi.

The aroma of fried chicken filled our Volkswagen Beetle as we set out for City Park.

A garden of jacaranda and bougainvillea received us under sunny skies. A light breeze stirred as I laid out the blanket. Perfect.

We sat cross-legged – nearly motionless on our picnic lawn. And reviewed Thanksgivings of our past. Gratitude rose in Ann and me for many things – finding ourselves especially thankful for Thanksgiving itself. Our infant princess gurgled. We bowed and I voiced our gratefulness.

Turning to Ann, I framed my request precisely and in the polite form, “Kuku tafadhali?” (Some chicken please?) We chuckled. My language exercise for the day. It would have to do.

“Let us come before him with thanksgiving.” Psalm 95

November 25, 2015August 28, 2017

Attentive

It wasn’t Bill’s fault. They decided and that was that. They deprived him any say – no decision-making leverage – no voicing an opinion. Not that it would have mattered. They were the farmers. Bill was the horse.

To him it probably seemed unfair. Bill didn’t sign up to entertain adolescent boys, have their spurs gouge his ribs at will, yank the bridle this way and that till the bit bruised his mouth. Who turns teenage boys loose to traumatize a stallion – not to mention a fifteen-year-old gelding?

Such injustice may have prompted the biting assault to my side one Fall day.

Neither my brother Tim nor I – nor our Dad for that matter – were schooled in proper horse care. Still, we weren’t mean to Bill. Not on purpose.

Added to other abuses, the reckless cinching of a saddle strap can be especially annoying evidently, to a horse.

He was a tall animal and at first stood passive as I brought the saddle upward along his left side. Landing it atop the protective wool blanket I reached beneath and across Bill’s mid-section for the strap. Bringing it my way I threaded it through the cinch ring. I then undertook the most demanding task in preparing for an afternoon ride. Apart from catching the horse in the first place.

Tugging the girth strap I scolded Bill under my breath. Stop bloating your belly, horse! Horses will often distend their belly when the saddle is tightened, likely to reduce discomfort. However, a loosened saddle is the result once an animal relaxes their breathing again. In the worse instance this can endanger a rider. Putting my hundred twenty pounds into it I yanked the strap upward. That is when Bill’s head swung around. And his great teeth struck a fierce bite.

DANG, Bill! Dang it!

I leapt, swung at him and grabbed my side all at once. DUMB Bill. Bad horse!

The shock and sting let up after a minute. I lifted my shirt. An orange-red hue marked the area along his teeth marks. Thankfully the skin didn’t break. Dumb Bill.

Drawing a parallel on human behavior in some relationships seems natural. As in child-raising.

Parents will, at times, apply excessive pressure on a child to conform. Discerning what helps both the child and their parents needs time and consideration. Patience and wisdom. Often, prayer.

In time I learned how to reduce excessive pressure to a horse – and teeth marks to my side. Spacing the cinch-tightenings with short walks between can relieve tensions and settle the matter agreeably for both horse and rider.

And being attentive. Not so hard a thing to do, but being attentive must be done on purpose. Noting body language, feelings, considering the persons point of view.

After the barnyard misunderstanding I always saddled Bill attentively. One eye toward the girth strap, the other toward his head. I found that, with practice, it can be done.

December 1, 2015August 28, 2017

Gravity

Tears pooled in my fifteen-year-old eyes. A paper with rhythmic ink lines lay open on the principal’s desk between us.

He was an imposing man, Mr. S. And his bearing when wielding a paddle (concealed I knew somewhere in this room) provoked dread.

Still, my tears rose from a sting greater than the forthcoming whoosh of the principal’s paddle. My offense was serious. It was worse than serious, it was shameful and I felt it inside. Remorse. Not so much for having been found out. But for the deed itself.

The irony was the instruments I used to inflict pain. This I had done. Brought pain. Not by jagged rocks thrown through a classroom window. Not by flaming matches igniting a chemistry lab. Nothing menacing that way. A simple writing pad and ballpoint pen.

Now I was here in Mr. S’s office. Sitting silent across from him, hands on my lap, I reflected the ugliness of my act. No teacher deserved the mockery I scrawled on that paper. Not even her. A tear landed on my right thumb.

The teacher had become, over time, the object of whispered jokes by several students. Amused, I crafted a poem – humor of the worst kind – demeaning.

I was as dumb as my act was unkind – signing my name and passing it to a friend. He read it, grinned and passed it to another student.

I didn’t see my work of poetry again. Until now – two days later – when called to Mr. S’s office. There it lay on his desk. After blubbering my apology I bent forward and gripped my ankles. Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack.

While it is not the recommended way to appreciate the gravity of written words, it had its effect.

Drawn to reading.

Snail-slow that I was in making it through most books, I liked reading – throughout and beyond my teen years.

When a correspondence course on becoming a writer caught my attention I promptly scrounged up money and sent for it. Lacking discipline and on-sight support I foundered. The appetite, though sidelined, ripened with time.

Elizabeth Elliot’s Through Gates of Splendor opened me to drama I hadn’t seen. Present-day disciples. Daring. Sacrificial. Its reading watered earlier seed. A thought flowered – One day I may put pen to paper.

Long since my visit to Mr. S’s office – the whack of his paddle, my new appreciation for the gravity of written words – I’ve fashioned a kind of purpose.

Through writing I’ll lift, inspire, encourage. And – at my work’s conclusion – in good conscience, I’ll sign my name.

December 9, 2015August 28, 2017

Light Journey

A Christmas Tale that might have been

Balthazar rolled to his side. Though he had slept, he was long from home and, thus, not well rested. Besides, slumber is meant for night time. His eyes opened to barely a sliver and held there. Pulling in a slow breath he noticed – even with his sliver of vision – the light in his tent had diminished.

I must rally. The sun will soon be down, dark of night will blanket us. He smiled. Then the star will ease into view. Already pre-travel action had set in beyond the tent – servants fussing with saddle bags, a camel protesting with three loud snorts, the cinching of her belly harness.

Heydar! The call of surprise – almost of alarm – sounded beyond the tent flap. And a second time. Heydar! Wait, we are coming!

Balthazar’s eyes widened fully. Worry creased his forehead. What misfortune’s come to my foremost servant, Heydar?

The caravan – its multi-blend of culture and language – was now months into its westward trek. Balthazar – and his fellow magi (Gaspar and Melchior) to be sure – began sensing in recent days a soon arrival to their destination. Still, they could not be certain. Indeed there was little of which they were certain. Ever since leaving the familiar – the predictables of home, of family.

The one sure thing about all this – the indisputably sure thing – was the mandate, a curious stirring of destiny. They each felt it – The worship compulsion he privately tagged it. Indeed, he thought wryly – as surely as the nostrils of Gaspar’s camel expels the foulest breath of all Mesopotamia’s beasts – the magi were called Westward. A mandate. From the heavens. And after no small attention to the starry bodies and no meager energies making ready for the trek. . . Well, to this place they had come. Thus far.

Ah, but what of Heydar? And – (a secondary thought) what of tonight’s fire?.Balthazar was hurrying now toward the commotion.

The great sun was lower. A chill settling over the craggy landscape.

They had camped here in this hostile terrain from after sunup this morning – here where rocks were many and trees few. The full caravan staying put, as they had on each day previous at each day’s location. Until darkness arrived – and, with it – the star. Among the last of Heydar the servant’s tasks this day was to gather and bring firewood – for it was Balthazar and his company’s turn to make ready the fire for all the travelers.

Heydar limped into camp, aided by two companions and leaning much into a gnarled makeshift walking stick – the stick of a dead tree. It hardly seemed fit to bear his weight. Indeed, in that moment, a sharp crack – the stick snapped beneath him. Heydar staggered past the reach of his fellows and dropped to a knee. He stifled a cry and grimaced – his hand reaching low to rend comfort to his throbbing limb.

Master, Heydar called momentarily to the approaching Balthazar. Forgive me, my lord. While gathering sticks a viper startled me, I leapt. And, though spared the sting of its fang, I lost footing and plunged my ankle into a crevice, twisting it sorely. I have no wood for the fire, my lord, save for what remains of this pitiful acacia stick.

Heydar’s master consoled him briefly, ordered the others to see the servant to his tent. Then he, Balthazar, turned. Facing the way from which his servant had just come, the magi, with care, ventured forward. I am not so advanced in years to fail the task of gathering fuel for our last dining in this place. Still, the land had darkened much in these moments.

Balthazar paused. As he stood – with quiet and dark all about him – he discovered at the ground ahead of him the forming of a murky outline of his body.

Ah, my shadow! The landscape brightened. Enough to detect the terrain, and a fallen tree out ahead. Before moving to it he turned about and looked up, seeking the source of the light.

Ah, the old man smiled. Of course.

December 19, 2015August 28, 2017

Yearning. Magi

Something is amiss. What? What is it?

The mutter passing through Melchior’s barely-parted lips was for no one’s ears. In one fashion or other – half-whispered, barely voiced, even silently within his thoughts – the nagging persisted. Dozens of times it came since passing third watch. He had keenly followed his animal’s motions and moods from midnight till now.

Beams from a rising sun already stalked the caravan’s rear flank, sketching long, thin shadows on the sand out ahead. At least with coming of light he would gain advantage – would examine each hoof – above and beneath. What is it? What troubles my beast? Melchior’s gravelly voice took a stronger yet warm and pitying tone, directed to the animal herself. Flanked by her pair of lavishly furry ears the camel’s head moved just beyond arm’s reach. But for this distance, Melchior’s hand would have rested here, consoling.

I feel beneath me no limping gait. You seem well enough, my desert lady. Yet. . .

He stroked the lining of the cloak at his shoulders (fashioned itself of camel hair). Melchior’s surprise at a tear forming in his eye provoked clearing of his throat. He glanced about, gruffly swiped at the tear. The priestly magus was drawn again to reflection. Addawser – “the large one” – had long been his beast and was never, to him, a means of mere utility.

Ah no, no mere camel, Addawser. Strong-willed at times? Ha! At times? Haha! The animal answered Melchior’s caress to her shoulder with a throaty rumble. The master grew reflective.

They had – each in the company of the other – weathered thirty-eight summers. Melchior raised his vision above the horizon. He was certain of a star-blanketed sky as if it were still full night and they still visible. He voiced petition to the great deity of skies, hoping an attentive ear might heed. May Constellation’s God grant me and Addawser more good summers together. May it be . . .

The caravan drew to a halt. The sun behind them edged upward.

Alright, Good Lady Addawser. We rest now. At her master’s voice, the camel lowered. He dismounted. A studied survey of her hooves followed. Alright, grand lady, let’s solve this nagging riddle.

The priest’s thumb-stroke halted. The pebble – lodged in the animals left hind hoof – was small enough to have been easily missed. Not harmful, to be sure, and only barely felt by the camel herself, it could be certain. Still, Melchior knew his Addawser. Knew her pleasure that the irritant – slight though it was – had got fished out by the aid of his pesh-kabz. I should have thought, my Addawser. Yes, I might have guessed. Foolish master, foolish, foolish master. He chuckled. From the camel’s interior rose another throaty rumble. At this, two servants shared knowing glances.

To speak to one’s camel is no rare thing – most common, in fact. Loud rebukes, angry scoldings. But words of friendship. . . of warmth? Ah, hardly. Sharing, as they seem, a comradery? Rare as oases in the Persian desert.

The nomad priest-scholar fingered his pesh-kabz a moment more – its knife-point keen enough for the stone’s removal, enough to penetrate battle armor if need be. He looked at the pebble – backward and forward he rolling the gritty stone between forefinger and thumb. Melchior sighed. He rendered a wholly new question – though whispered as he had done before.

What of my own pebble?

The more he mused, the more fitting seemed the comparison. Indeed, so fitting the matter of Addawser’s pebble rekindled the old disquiet within.

He spread his mat at the base of a crag where he hoped for daytime slumber. I yet have the feeling. Well, to be sure the feeling itself is different. Yet, much like the matter with Addawser before her riddle was settled.

My soul is troubled by something – as with a pebble gone unfound in my sandal. There is this in my soul. The feeling. So primary to his thinking this matter, Melchior mused further.

My life goes forward by day, by night, but to where? I gain distance, yet to what purpose? Within, I feel yearning. Toward something elusive. As a phantom. So, turning inward to himself, for what – my soul – do I yearn?

The esteemed Melchior drew a sigh. Emotion threatened to prevail, akin to that which for some prompts sobbings deep and long. With effort he willed himself quiet. Yet the question remained, What troubles me? Ah! The very question I labored with for my camel through fourth watch. . . What troubles me? God of all constellations. Shall I ever know? Where is my place of rest? He rolled to his side. Drained – body and mind – Melchior slept.

The depth of sleep into which he sank sweetened Melchior’s waking moments hours later. Such restfulness – the kind he’d nearly forgotten through this arduous journey – revived in him an earlier eagerness. The focus, the purpose of their westward trek.

Dark revisited the land, as did the prominent star. Its presence, by now assumed, nearly as much as sought after – like a valued, unparting friend.

The caravan snaked further along a patchwork of desert and sagebrush.

The priest shifted in his saddle. With it came, it seemed, a shift in mood. Of strong stirring. We are near. I feel it. Seldom was the priest known to whistle. Now – for a short time at least – a lively melody from the Persia’s hinterland escaped his lips.

From beginning of fourth watch the caravan undertook a gradual climb. Addawser served this leg of the trek as lead camel. Thus it was her nose that first passed into the great escarpment overlooking the town. The star sat immobile. It’s light stretched downward. The rays enveloped a domestic dwelling and its close-by animal shelter. Melchior’s vision – clouded now by ever-moistening eyes – held steady to the sight. He could not have imagined a common home scene stirring such emotion. Drawing his animal to a halt, he rested in the saddle – his spirit hushed. Aware that a long yearning was nearing a threshold passing at this place – not far from the Great Sea. This place, in this dwelling.

In that moment came another knowing – more deeply – of a curious kind. Knowledge that his yearning was not to fully end, not finish here. Not fully. Rather the yearning would be engaged. As a satisfying kind of yearning. In communion, somehow with another. And still others in a lesser measure. Here. Soon. Such mystery in this entire venture. But compelling. Mighty in its pull.

Melchior breathed in – his mind going to the cargo sack at Addawser’s side. The frankincense for a king-child. His eyes wrinkled to a smile. He felt himself within giddy as any child.

Leaning forward he whispered, Addawser, it is my time. The pebble shall dislodge from the sandal of my soul. The nagging shall soon quiet. It quiets even now, my desert lady. Silence hushed all space from them to the light-bathed dwelling. Then was broken. Addawser sounded her throaty rumble. Melchior – in that moment – laughed more heartily, more freely than he had in many summers.

December 23, 2015August 28, 2017

Restricted God

If lameness means restricted mobility, God entered the world limping. It is called the incarnation.

Polio visited me before my first birthday. I’ve limped all my life. The physical lameness came uninvited, an unwelcome intruder.

God the eternal Word – constrained yes, but only by love – became flesh. Voluntarily. With no illusions.

Who can take this in – the incarnation? How can it be considered? What mind can think this way? Really.

Jesus – Fully human God. I labor to see this.

‘See’ the creator and sustainer of the cosmos. See Him as the human preborn, the human baby, human child, human adolescent, human adult. . . Yielding to human death.

God’s lameness (diminished mobility) is his goodness physically embodied – coming to us, to our rescue. Coming for us – we other humans – limping as we are, disfigured by and in our sin.

Taking our crippled lives to his soul; see this God – Word-made-flesh – inviting spikes to his feet. Display of lameness – disclosing his helplessness.

His human life absorbed judgment for every human wrong. For anyone. Ever.

And three days from yielding to torturous death – this Jesus of Bethlehem, Jesus of Nazareth, Jesus of Golgotha – rises. Rises.

Astonishing. Everything about it. About him.

Baby’s birth, teacher’s life, sacrificial offering’s death, the Savior’s resurrection. To what end?

To deliver. To bring us to the thing he brought to us. His kingdom.

To what end? To the end that, by his kingdom life, he transforms us to be as he is in this world. Cosmic mystery.

To the end that, out of our limping strength we enter into – as he did – the lameness of others. Incarnating among them so to speak.

Thy kingdom come.

The end, it seems, must be hope And transformation.

Bringing Joy.

To the world.

Love has been perfected among us in this. .

because as He is,

so are we in this world

– 1 John 4:17

December 31, 2015August 28, 2017

Branch

Bring the lamp near.

Gaspar was accustomed to giving commands. Wealthy, of prominent lineage, tutored by notable scholars.

Gaspar, together with his friend – a devotee to the heavenly bodies – studied the star chart until their half-finished tea went cold.

Now. Let’s go have a look.

Straightening themselves they moved outside.

Lighted pinpoints blanketed the sky. The astrologer-scholar tilted his head, directing his chin toward the westward horizon. He signaled his friend. There.

Gaspar’s deep eyes, squinting just moments ago, widened. Ah, yes. Acknowledging further by a lifted hand he whispered, Yes, I see. Then added, Um, yes, this one has never caught my eye before tonight. Indeed I don’t recall ever seeing it. This star.

You have not seen it because it has never been. Not until these weeks.

Well, said Gaspar, We must look into parchments of civilizations past – others as well as our own. And determine.

Determine what, nobel friend?

What, if any, purpose a new star in the heavens may serve. Fortune perhaps?

Months later, Gaspar riding his beast – rolling slowly with its stride – reviewed that night. He savored occasions when he could – without intrusion – review his past, his station in life, his good fortune.

Keeping to his general disposition he struggled with humility. This, he himself would not deny. Truthfully, he did find himself growing uneasy at his self-congratulatory musings. But only slightly.

Of course it was I who first took serious note of the light in the western sky. And didn’t I, Gaspar, in my research, uncover the mystery-promises?

The promises, he recalled, were oral references of ancient Hebrew parchments – oracles predicting a king’s birth. A child-king promised to the Hebrew peoples. . . perhaps even to the world. His shoulders lowered and he sighed, reluctant to credit others whose qualities were equally vital to the cause.

Yes, he conceded, Melchoir was he whose dream one night launched a relentless search of the heavens for some guiding star. And, yes, it lay with Belthazar’s talent to coordinate and map the pilgrimage details – a talent unmatched by most skilled trackers across the eastern world.

Still.

Was it not I among the magi – Gaspar swept his billowy-sleeved arm in an arch denoting his companions. Was it not I of whom the elders in my land whispered openly, ‘Of course Gaspar will lead the expedition. Such a venture demands leadership. Who else?’ His slight-turned smile – even in reflection – betrayed smugness. Shouts interrupted his thoughts.

Master, master! The light we have followed all this way. The star. It seems to have ceased its forward advance. It is lowered now. Fixed. In place. And see, now master, to the valley there ahead. The town. Might it be the place of the king-child. Might it be, master? The servant drew back, rejoining his fellows, each of them abuzz with theory.

The fourth watch was half-run when the caravan finished its descent, trimming the distance to the sleeping village. The star’s brightness shone from directly above them. Gaspar squirmed in his saddle, a curious discomfort had been rising inside him for awhile. With no prompting of any kind he knew. The disquiet was in his soul – a deep troubling within. He shuddered – less settled still.

The star’s light – distinct and above him – converged it seemed with another kind of light – invisible, holy, searing. Illumining his whole person, his inner self. Gaspar’s shudder yielded to a muffled cry – lamenting, confessing, sorrowing. The shift of mood became his. He owned it and it overtook him.

Woe, woe am I. Corrupt. Arrogant. Viewing my brother with contempt. The remorse went on, spilling out. I am brought low, an unworthy being. Seekings – soul-questions – displaced his confessions. But before whose face I am unworthy I know not. I dare not proceed. . . to the place of the king-child. Who is this one, this child? Is it he who moves upon me so – here, even before I view his face?

He drew his camel back, brought his cape over his face. At his command – oddly meek now to his animal’s ears – the camel knelt. Gaspar dismounted. He went to his knees in the sand. Unworthy. I’ve nothing to give. Even the myrrh I bring. No, I must receive. Must gain mercy. Mercy. Exalted Being. . Governor of constellations. Mercy!

In moments he sensed a thing wholly new to his experience. A presence. Then he felt a word – felt it more than heard it. Bathed. . . bathed. The term marked more than any the feeling sweeping him – washing through him. A bathing presence. Wave on purifying wave. Cleansing. Marked by joy.

He didn’t know the time he lingered – the cleansing under the star’s light. His smile was wide, free – embracing the world all about him. After some moments he moved to rise.

His right leg, bent beneath him so long, had lost feeling. Reaching upward, he grasped a young tree’s low-hanging branch and raised himself. Steadying himself by the branch, he rolled the useless foot round and round in motion. A picture began forming in Gaspar’s mind as he balanced there on one leg. Yes, yes this is who I am. I am a man not able, of my own reserves, to properly stand. On my own I am out of balance. Needing support. Support such as found in this tree. He strengthened his grip on the branch.

Old fool you’ve been. Wagging his head, Gaspar chided himself. My own arrogance. My haughtiness. Assigning to myself glory not due me. This has left me a cripple. But now.

A surprise wave of thankfulness overtook him. Further, it stirred in him a resolve. And a pledge.

From this day I shall walk in the company of others. None of us alone – none isolated from the rest. My brothers – Melchior and Balthazar indeed – yes, and my servants as well. Guides they are – companions all – upon whom I may lean. Friends unto whom I shall render service. Yes, we shall be – each to the other – as a supporting limb.

But yet. The wise man paused. A worrying line formed. Are we – we humans, equal to this – frail supports that we are? Hardly fit to carry ourselves – even less one another. What of our frailties? Ours each one? Indeed it is we ourselves most needing support. And what support have we? Have we any?

Bustling movements interrupted his thoughts – excited calls sounding from a place just ahead. Ecstatic, adoring calls – calls voiced in varied tongues – Aramaic, Hebrew, Persian, Arabian. All declaring one thing – one person. The child-king.

One voice, with Persian accent, of Jewish descent – sounded above others. Distinct, crisp, jubilant. The call struck Gaspar’s soul. Cupping his ear to seize upon the phrases, he took them in, every word – one by one.

All worship to him, the Christ-child!

Messiah!

King!

Morning star!

the Branch!

The word almost escaped him.

Branch? Gaspar swallowed. A twilight breeze touched his face, stirring his beard.

Without thinking, he turned again to the tree still in his reach. He peered toward the lighted glow of a simple dwelling on the path ahead. Hope stirred.

I shall deliver the myrrh to my Lord.

He wrapped his fingers about the bough and squeezed, firm and long.

Gaspar mounted his animal. Take me now, camel. See the light of the dwelling there, camel?

We shall meet there a child.

The King-child.

January 7, 2016August 28, 2017

Qualities that Count. ‘Attentiveness

Attentive – thinking about or watching something carefully : paying careful attention to something. merriam-webster

My son, be attentive to my wisdom; incline your ear to my understanding, Proverbs 5:1

A mark of sensible intelligence is paying attention (attentiveness) to wisdom. Being with wise people, reading wisdom literature, practicing being wise; all these lead toward a good life. Attentiveness can even make a difference in the animal kingdom. As my friend, Ben, saw in Uganda.

* * *

The house cat, her eyes trained upward to an adjoining room, lowered her body along the floor. Assuming a stalking posture, she began her move.

Ben – a young missionary living with his uncle and aunt in Kampala – sat his beverage aside. This could be interesting.

Seated where he was, Ben could take in the full view. He intertwined his fingers behind his head and watched.

A large circular bird cage hung on a secure hook from the living room ceiling. On a simple roost in the cage sat an African Gray parrot. The house cat licked her lips.

Ben’s uncle and aunt owned a third pet, as well – a dog – which, at the moment, was nowhere in sight.

The cat was viewed by the canine as a bothersome presence – so would find herself at times racing through the house – the dog barking in hot pursuit.

A straight-backed chair had been left directly under the parrot cage – a detail not lost on the cat. She leapt onto the chair and placed her front paws atop its back support. Her leaping advantage established, she eyed the bird a final moment. Before pandemonium struck.

Unknown to the predator house-cat, the Gray was a keen observer. Not only was she taking in her every move, from her perch she had often watched the dog-and-cat-chase through the house.

Suddenly, the bird dropped to the cage floor, raced round and round on it. And vigorously barked – perfectly mimicking the dog’s strong bark.

Throwing his head back, Ben broke into a long, rollicking laugh – as a shrieking bundle of fur bolted through an open door to freedom.

January 22, 2016August 28, 2017

Rhythm

I think we all need – really need, this to navigate life.

My friend Roger continued. Bringing less frazzle, more sanity. More life. Roger, was on a roll. Not unlike a drum roll.

When I hear drum rolls or things to do with foot-tappings, knee-slappings, fingertip-rappings, I think, Cody.

Not the Cody, Wyoming of other blog posts here recalling bus rides westward, motorcycle adventure, romance.

Rather the Cody from Southeast Oklahoma – my first grandson. Is he twenty-two now – Really?

For years his hands, wrists, even shoulders have unleashed pulsating energies.

What’s that distant rat-a-tat? More than one head-scratching visitor has posed the question to my daughter – his mother. She smiles, Oh, that’s Cody out in the game room. Drumming.

Distracted family members have implored little drummer boy – Umm, Code-man, could you ease up on the finger tapping. Focusing on our card game ain’t going well.

From eighth grade he began wowing us (grandparent bragging rights are constitutionally-protected.) Ten years beating away on drum heads, cymbals, chests of drawers, kitchen counters, bathroom mirrors, pickup hoods. God be praised he drums in rhythm.

Our lives need rhythm, Roger went on. My wife and I take a ‘couch time’ break most days. Breaking for fifteen minutes from all the action swirling around us. To connect, to catch up. To be in each other’s worlds. On purpose.

Rhythms. On Purpose.

Call them practices. Call them disciplines.

Whatever we call them – practices, disciplines – thoughtful people weave them into their calendar. Stewarding ebbs and flows of on-purpose living. On purpose.

Much like ancient Jesus-followers did, like mothers and fathers of the faith did – century by century.

Like the master Jesus himself did,

“Rising a great while before day he went into a solitary place, and there prayed”.

And Paul, “as his custom was he entered the synagogue”. Prayer, Scripture, Church community, Service, Solitude, Rest, Labor.

I ponder such a list and an appetite stirs. I’m homesick to ebb and flow like this, in my own design.

As surely as I am made for God, I’m made for rhythms. He moves in, takes up more space in my affections. Helps me live my design.

Going to Youtube I watched several drummers – really accomplished drummers. Not all were specimens of health. So physically disabled were some they struggled to mount the drum stool. Then magic took over. How?

Their disciplines – repeated practicings – carried them to astonishing mastery. Melodious thumpings and swishings, clangings and tappings easily flow from their wrists and hands. Amazingly they have long stopped thinking their limbs into action. The body takes over. It is trained.

Such is the way of the Jesus-follower. More becoming his, in the ebb and flow of spiritual disciplines. Trusting his help, his ready strength at every step. Entering the easy yoke.

“I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” -Jesus

February 3, 2016August 28, 2017

Race to Space

My index finger entered the circular hole of the rotary disc. I dialed the figures scrawled on the paper before me. A job lead, maybe?

The seconds taking me to dial had me reflecting.

Boy oh boy, just yesterday it seems. I was five-years-old – shedding the leg brace. Then nine – hospitalized by the second polio bout.

My thoughts easily moved to the sweet angel on crutches. What an impact she made. . . Still does, I mused.

The ringing at the line’s other end stopped. Hello, this is Richard.

Placing Richard’s voice was easy. Ultra-deep bass. Warm, of a kind surely passed to him from an older sister. The angel on crutches – Opaline.

Hi, Richard. This is Jerry returning your call. How are things?

A short exchange then, Jerry I’m calling to let you know the aerospace company I’m with is hiring. If you’re interested in a Tulsa job, I think you might get on here. He was right.

My first day on the job had me trudging through rows of filing shelves – aisle on aisle of engineering data. I thought of my earlier years when I peered at oddly-textured, blue-tinted paper spread across the hood of my father’s pickup. His fingers traced images while his mind tracked their silent messages. Here, taking in rows of files, my senses mingled. Feeling the green, metal pickup hood beneath my palms, smelling the print-room chemicals from the nearby room in this place. Wow, I never imagined so many blueprints.

The company, its employees in the thousands, processed me for security clearance. Heady stuff for a country boy raised on a farm just south of here.

The United States and Soviet Union race-for-space had launched in earnest. Brilliant American minds developed and crafted a top priority project. Where will all this lead? I wondered. Over coming months my hands felt after, retrieved, refiled blueprints by the hundreds Many bore a name out of Greek mythology.

Apollo.