migration

the spirit said migrate northwest.
and i did.

(at 9:30 pm)

how very much i love the midwest.

“may he live forever”

shasta and i escaped from calormen today. “the horse and his boy” has always been one of my favorite of the chronicles (i admit my favorite is always the one i’m currently reading--or listening to in this case). every time i feast on these treasure-books i taste something fresh. you must know that between my reading and hearing of the books i’ve been thru them nearly 100 times. really, i’m not exaggerating--it may seem that way, but i started reading them when i was but six, have no tv (not for any noble reason except that i get no reception in the woods and have unusual purchasing priorities--i LOVE television--really, i’m not exaggerating), and consider these books a favorite snack. sometimes i’ll pick one up to start right in the middle--the finest way to read them. so trust me when i say i get it. this time though, i got something new: you know how shasta encounters the “accursed narnians” in tashbaan? how he is mistaken for prince corin? and how he never tells them of his quest before escaping? (stick with me here will you) why didn’t aslan send shasta and his traveling companions off with the narnians from tashbaan? why does he tease shasta with a taste of narnian-nectar before he lets him go? he whets his appetite for the reward, then forces him to endure the nite of terror amongst the tombs, the sole-burning sands of the desert, the frightful thirst, the (wink, wink) lion attack, and the “run, run, always run” of the arrival. as we walked with the witless horse over the mountain pass, shasta and i made the same complaint (yes, i chose shasta’s side this time): “i have been most unfortunate!” i’ve always loved aslan’s response here--i stop breathing. he doesn’t explain his work to shasta, he just says “i was the cat.” and when asked which cat: “myself.” then he’s gone. the point is not the shasta-story, but the aslan-story: how his swift of foot love touched each moment, how that love wrote the shasta-story, and how that story was meant only for him.

may he live forever.

$41.43

"commoners often stood through the three-hour performances at the globe, in either rain or shine."

(yes we stood, and it was worth every tired calf muscle)

WICKED

as a pot

i was struck by something very powerful last nite: my Bible. yup, pretty powerful! most of you have read of my recent neglect, and so should read of my recent foray. i got thirsty last nite--take a bath thirsty (see "big fish"). one of the biggest hindrances to my Scripture reading has always been: "where do i start?" if i were running a marathon, just shooting the starting gun wouldn't do it. you'd have to start shooting me with the starting gun. so, i got pointed at last nite and decided to run--straight into the rain. it came in great sloppy drops of psalm 119:

With your very own hands you formed me;
now breathe your wisdom over me so I can understand you.
When they see me waiting, expecting your Word,
those who fear you will take heart and be glad.
I can see now, God, that your decisions are right;
your testing has taught me what's true and right.
Oh, love me—and right now!—hold me tight!
just the way you promised.
Now comfort me so I can live, really live;
your revelation is the tune I dance to.
Let the fast-talking tricksters be exposed as frauds;
they tried to sell me a bill of goods,
but I kept my mind fixed on your counsel.
Let those who fear you turn to me
for evidence of your wise guidance.
And let me live whole and holy, soul and body,
so I can always walk with my head held high. (73-80)

my complaint has been of being the "object lesson", and look what HE dropped on my head! i'm not an object lesson--i'm evidence. no, i *get* to be evidence. and again, it's not about me. does the pot yell for the Potter to stop because He's doing a rotten job? this pots been trying!

still yelling.
not at the Potter.

"take heart and be glad--there is abundant wise guidance!!!! oh be sure of it."

(you've been yelled at)

broke my bodum

well, it finally happened: i broke my bodum. i've been feeling it coming, and the other nite whilst putting away my dishes, the cookie sheet got a little winky and knocked the bodum beaker into the floor. (i think the cookie sheet was a little jealous because it *never* gets used, but the bodum gets all kinds of action. note: my cookie making acumen is a bit dull. hence the neglect of the sheet.) loud crash. loud scream. major disappointment. so, in looking for the replacement part, i came across this. i can hear the soothing sucking coffee sound even now as i drift off into french roast oblivion....

modern day cowboy

(with apologies to t. s. eliot)

"with his cell phone rather loose in it's holster"

i saw him yesterday on the way to church: hat, jeans, boots, shirtless and tan, cell phone locked and loaded.

if in danger, call 911. rawhide!

for only 3 bucks

[ok, i took it down....some people are not very nice and can't enjoy a little disturbing whimsy.]

yup, it says "FAITH"

really, how could i not buy it.

post production blues

i do not like post production work:
the wrap-up that makes me feel like a failure.

because i am an avoider, when a task is finished i like to be done and
then avoid all memory of it. the problem is that when i'm in the middle
of something the avoider thing still holds true.

so, i'm pretty much in a cycle of avoiding everything by living in my
own fantasy where someone else will face all the hard stuff for me, and
i can sit by and imagine what it would be like to have the courage to
face all the hard stuff.....blah, blah, blah

ok, back to work.

the unplan

then they spoke in words all common:

"it was like i had no choice"
"i wasn't planning on that"
"i wasn't expecting that either"
"that's not where i thot this was going to go"
"it was a situation i didn't choose"

(words spoken in testimony bounded off the verbal page to sear
themselves on my memory. each suprised by the unplanned plan. each
wholly satisfied to walk in the unplan.)

(καιρος) the right moment

confession: i haven’t been reading my Bible. it’s been a few weeks. i’m trying to come up with a clever way to make an excuse, and i keep typing sentences only to delete them. (just did it again) it’s not that i haven’t tried, and it’s not that i don’t want to, it’s just that the last six months have been the Christian walk on speed, and i’m weary. tom bombadil and i have been chillin in the front parlor with tea and bread, and my finely tuned ear for the black riders has grown dull. so, i started fresh. the siren call of job lured me in (hmm, i wonder WHO’s voice that was). right now i’m on the slow journey of trying to process it all, but here’s the tea and bread for the day: “when i speak up, i feel no better, if i say nothing, that doesn’t help either. i feel worn down.” (job 16:6) yep, that’s all. i could rant and rave at the LORD for turning me out the front door on an adventure-road that seems to lead nowhere: wouldn’t help. i could completely break down, say my last words to GOD and walk out: wouldn’t help. hey, i could just skip the last words: still wouldn’t help. so, worn down, i sit here not feeling how i feel.

you know what i remember from the nite at tom and goldenberry bombadil’s? it wasn’t just one nite. the adventurers didn’t know how long they were there. they just rested....and waited. kairos.

two hands

here's what my two hands did this last week.

reduce.
reuse.
recycle.

what a lovely idea.

revelry of orange

the bracelet has returned of almost a week and a half ago.

this time for celebrating so many fresh things:

orange hair.
two hands.
green eyes.
safety.
courage.
green hope.

"behold i make all things new...."

midnight wanderings

me and my silver torch.

last nite we had a little chat about some hard things, but there was a breakthrough. i want to be on this journey of faith. i want to be on it even if it means deep hurt. i want to be on it even if it isn't safe. i miss the journey. i've been resting in the house of tom bombadil for a few days, and now it is time to face the barrow-wight.

do adventures ever have an end?

i hope not.