The Theology of Turkey Bacon

Another morning.  It's 4:30 and the sun is up.  That's about 2 1/2 hours better than winter at year's end.  It's light enough to maneuver through the Little-House-On-The-Corner, unsteadily navigating around the shoes, books, and tray tables on the way to the coffeemaker.

The Elixir of Knowledge is now happily brewing, laying down a syncopated rhythm for the bird band outside.  I open the fridge door and begin to rummage.

Huh.

Forgot I bought this.  Well.

Why not.

I quietly put the teflon griddle on the stove and twist the dial to 3.  I "tear along dotted line" to reveal this morning's adventure...turkey bacon.

Okay, it was on sale, (half the price of the economy "clumps of dead pig jammed into plastic" bacon).  Figured I'd try it.

Two bucks is two bucks.

I pull out half-a-dozen strips.  Peeling 'em off, I put 'em down side by side.

Huh.

They're perfectly formed.  They're all identical, even down to the two-color dye job to give 'em the appearance of bacon.  Somewhere in the far corner of my mind, I hear a folk ballad line from the 60's.

"And they're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same."

Oh, yeah.  Sing it, Pete.

There's the faintest of sizzles coming from the griddle.  Not the pops, bangs, and explosions that happen with those globs of pork belly.

Just a quiet, discreet sizzle as if turkey bacon goes out of its way to be polite in its cooking.

"Oh, excuse me, I didn't mean to sizzle that loudly.  Did I offend you? My apologies. Oh my, did I pop?"

5 minutes later, I run the spatula under and up to place 6 identical pieces of perfectly pressed and formed strips on a plate.  Identical thicknesses, widths, and lengths.  Even the pink and white strips browned in such a way that their anonymity remained intact...like going to the zoo to look at the zebras and they're all at the far end of the enclosure.

The griddle hardly has any grease on it.  Minimal mess.  Minimal fuss.

Well, the moment of truth.  Crispy.  Crunchy.  But...

I wash the mouthful down with a big pull of the Elixir of Knowledge, the bacon going down as a thought pops up.

Huh.

It's a verse I've learned but it comes out in the W.A.Y. (Weird Al Yankovic) translation.

"Having a form of bacon, but denying its porky-ness..."

Okay.

Another pull of the Elixir tightens the focus.  Really.  Um.  Am I doin' that?

Do I want my relationship with Him to be nice, tidy, well-planned, and regulated?  No surprises, no messes.  So that part of my life fits nicely into the rest of my life.  Like turkey bacon on a BLT.  Nice edges.  Nice presentation.

Another sip.  Another question asked.

Orrrrrrrr...

Do I want the real thing? As opposed to a nice, clean presentation that looks like the real thing?

It could get messy.  Real messy.  But He says it's the only real way to know Him.

As the song says:  "Just as I am".

Just as we are.

He could care less about the presentation...that just gets in the way of what He really wants to do for us.

He wants the real me and you to really give Him all of me and you.

All the lump and the twists.

All those weird and unseemly irregularities.

Will we still stick outta the sides of a BLT?  Probably.

Will there be a mess?  Most definitely.

But He will do fantastic things, using us in incredible, extraordinary ways.

Like what real bacon does to watercress.

And those overcooked chicken livers.

Dads and Marines

Summer in the Northwoods lasts just a little longer than an ABC sitcom.  Winter, on the other hand, is a season that has a longer run than the Ed Sullivan Show.  The older I get I find that winter is a season I just...endure.  Kinda like my right knee.

But, today, it is Summer.  I have parked myself in front of a fan while wandering through cyberspace.  I've swapped out my cup of coffee (aka The Elixir of Knowledge), for a tall, cold glass of iced tea (aka The Beverage of Solace).

And today is Father's Day

I scroll down the Facebook entries.  Here's a post that shows some UFC guys visiting Marine Camp Quantico and the Marine Corps Martial Arts Center for Excellence (MACE).  They're learning firsthand how the Marines teach the deadly arts.

Remind me never to mess with a Marine.  Ora UFC guy.

They're doing a thing called "The Last of the Mohicans".  I think it's named after the run in the movie, where a guy runs out of the fort to courier a message.  Could be wrong.

Each helmeted and padded UFC guy picks out a non-munitions, non-lethal rubber "weapon" (rubber knife, baton, etc.) and runs through the woods with a Marine observer aka The Umpire.

Every UFC guy runs into a two-on-one situation.  Two marines, one UFC guy.  The UFC guy, in every case, is "terminated" without beating a single Marine.

Well, c'mon, right?  Two-on-one.  Unchoreographed with no script.  Really.  How fair is that?

A UFC guy, to his credit, asks The Umpire what he shoulda done.

The reply is matter-of-fact.

"You're gonna die but you gotta take one out so your buddy behind you only has to fight one."

The Beverage of Solace pauses in mid-air as that sinks in.

I think I'd want a different outcome.  One where I come out more or less intact.

"You'll die...so your buddy only has to fight one.”

I stare out the window.  A swig of the Beverage swirls around words that I've read many times.

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."

I would see this post today of all days.

On Father's Day.

But, hey...isn't that the true essence of being a Dad? Laying it down for the family.  So their fights are easier.  Dying to self for those you love.

Like He did for us.

The Beverage of Solace swirls the dust away from another thought.

Now how'd I remember that?  I'm a Packers fan!.

It was during an interview with Mike Ditka who, at the time, was the coach of the Chicago Bears.  It was a few years ago, the Super Bowl year of '85, when he made this statement.  He borrowed it from Isaac Newton. He was summing up his younger years and his family.

"If I've accomplished anything it's because I've stood on the shoulders of giants."

He was talking about his father and his father before him.  And here's the thing about having someone stand on your shoulders.

It helps him or her reach higher -  but it limits you. And me..

Dying to self and laying it down.  So their fight is easier. So they can reach higher.

That's what Dads and Marines do, eh?

And Here We Go Again...

I am writing this, mid-afternoon, at the coffee shop in town.  Mid-afternoon.  Mid-week.

Yep.

For the 2nd time in 35 years, I am unemployed.  Like that Toby Mac song, "ya saw it comin' and it hit ya outta nowhere", it was a bit of a surprise.  Turns out, according to Management, I more or less suck at sales and yesterday morning I was informed about it.  I would have liked to discuss the three client list changes in 2 years, two of which took a large chunk of the better accounts and left the dregs...but there was no room for discussion.

It was a short monologue that was pretty much to the point.  No long goodbyes.

I can appreciate that.

And the weird part?

Driving home, I knew He had it all under control.  He really did, does, and will.

I pulled into the driveway, about 8 hours earlier than usual.  The Wife was at work as was TechnoBoy.  I walked into the Little-House-On-The-Corner. It was quiet.

I made a pot of the Elixir of Knowledge and walked a steaming cup over to the sofa anchoring the west wall of the Living Room portion of the Dining/Living/Computer/Family Room.

Staring out a window, I'm nudged by the phone vibrating in my pocket.  I dig it out to find the DAGU (Daughter All Grown Up) on the other end.

"Hey, me and your granddaughter are coming your way.  We want to surprise you but I figure I should let you know we're on the road.  But don't tell Mom.  Should be there in a couple three hours."

"Where you at, kiddo?"

"Just outside the city.  The baby got hungry while I was going through Mickey D's so we sat in the parking lot for 45 minutes while we had lunch together.  Finally got outta town."

I asked when she'd pull in and was told the grandbaby would need to eat and get a diaper change at least one more time before getting to the Little House.

Understandable.  The genetics causing such behavior must have swum over from my side of the gene pool when the southern hemisphere was being built.

Then a "love you" and a click.

Thanks, Lord.  I needed that.

It was a great night, just talking about things, passing the baby around like the holiday turkey platter.  A rented movie found us munching pizza and still passing the baby around.

Early the next morning the Agenda was set.  The Wife had three piano lessons, the DAGU had to feed the grandkid at least twice, and TechnoBoy had the 6-2 shift.  So I needed to get outta Dodge and come back at noon.

I bundled up the laptop and the munchies bag, fired up Phlegm the Taurus, and went into exile at the Library.  I setup my nest, settled in, and was on my first sip of free coffee.

"Hello, Dennis, how've you been?"

It was a retired missionary/pastor/church elder/all-around good guy with whom I share a church.  They were back up in the woods from snowbirding down in Texas where the winters are warmer.

I told him.  And now we're having breakfast tomorrow which I'm really looking forward to.

With trust comes peace, a peace that really does pass my understanding - like a Corvette passes a Geo on the freeway.

I think it's those little things He brings by to let me know He's here...yeah, that's what makes it easier to trust.

Like a card from an Aunt, a picture from a child, and a phone call from a friend.  The stuff I need when I need it.  There ain't no coincidence.  He's watching.

He cares.

So, once again, it's into the breach...and resting in the fact that He's knows where He wants me to go and who He's making me to be.

And that's the absolute best thing I could ask for and receive.

Yeah...this will be good.

It won't be any less dark and foreboding.  It's still feels like goin' through a long, lightless tunnel.  But He's drivin' and I'm ridin'.  And He's letting me pick out the music...so I'm good.

Baking the Pillsbury Doughboy

The Little-House-On-The-Corner is quiet tonight.  The Wife and TechnoBoy are at worship team practice.  Now it's just me, a cup of the Elixir of Knowledge, this laptop, and the window in the Dining Room portion of the Dining/Living/Computer/Family Room.

Like I said, it's a little house.

I can see a dog from down the street, Spanky,  slowly meandering past the driveway, making the rounds, checking all those things that the neighborhood dogs hike and mark.  He adds his contribution to the fire hydrant in the front yard then wanders on.

That's how Spanky relates to the other dogs. And probably his humans when he finally gets home.  We relate to things, right?  Well, not quite the same way Spanky does.  There are city ordinances that curb that kinda thing.

But isn't it weird what we relate to.  What we bond to.

We see it and it's like we instantly...connect.  We bond and relate to all kinds of things.

Puppies/kittens.

Songs.

People.

Superglue.

Huh....

I watch the friendly exchange of Day saying hello to Evening.   The Elixir  of Knowledge has cooled enough to allow a healthy draught.  Ohhhh, that's some good coffee...

The warm flow suddenly dislodges a memory that had be stuck between my imagination and my sweet tooth for years.

It was the memory of bonding with a childhood friend...the Pillsbury Doughboy.

At first, it was because he was on the box that had all the really good stuff in it.  When I got a little older,  it was because the Doughboy was white, pudgy, slow-moving and had a sense of humor.  I could relate, growing up in "Husky"-cut jeans, Stride Rite shoes, and Clark Kent glasses.

I could relate to everything except that giggling thing.  He seemed to like it when people poked him in the belly.

Me.  Not so much.

I lost this connection with the Doughboy around the 8th Grade when a growth spurt made Dad buy two sets of school clothes in one year.  That's when I found sports.

And folks stopped poking me in the belly.

That was a few years ago...and a few decades ago.  I lost touch with the Doughboy.  Just like we all do with Junior High BFFs until we meet them again at the 20-Year High School Reunion.

Nowadays I find myself shyly waving back whenever I see the Doughboy.  On a page, the screen.  I don't see him as much anymore, but when I do I say "hi".  I'm connecting again.  Relating again

Yeah, I'm back to white, pudgy, and slow-moving.  But I've progressed a bit.   Now I have round "pseudo-intellectual-John-Lennon" glasses that set the baseline for a high forehead  as it slowly migrates towards the back of my shirt.  It's one of those foreheads that clear-cuts hair as it goes....like a glacier scraping rock.

 All of the above would provide obvious reasons for the reconnection, but another pull of the Elixir swirls to a different conclusion.

Huh.

Really?

I think this time around there may actually be a deeper connection.  A surprisingly deeper connection.

I, like the Pillsbury Doughboy, am not done.  I am not finished.  I am incomplete at this stage just like my little corporate counterpart.  We need something to complete  us.

We need to get baked.

OK.

Upon rereading that last statement, I think I should explain myself - especially to those of us who grew up in the 60's,  are into bohemian lifestyles,  and play or have played in either a rock band or professional football.

And, of course, to everyone living in Colorado.

There is that one thing in everyone's life that defines them, that defines their life up to that point.   The moment that brings it all together.  The experiences that make us who we are.

The Culmination.    AKA...The Baking.

Grab a beverage and Imagine with me, if you will, the idea of cake batter and the "Before, During, and After" sequences as it relates to The Baking.

I've seen this concept used by a youth pastor, a camp director,  and some Sunday School teachers. I've also seen it self-inflicted  by kids who didn't want to wait for the cake and their mom wasn't home...and they didn't want to share with their two sisters who also were not home and....not that I would...

OK.  Let's refocus.  Cleansing breath.  Refocus.  Deep pull of the Elixir.  Here we go.

Measure outnthe ingredients for a cake.  Put 'em in individual piles.  Taste each pile.  Yeah.  Not gonna win the County Fair Bake-Off.

Mix the piles together.  Taste it again.  Possibly better but a long way from good.

Add some water.  Some milk.  Crack an egg into it.  Make it yucky and messy.  Taste it if you want...I'm gonna pass.

Now.

Beat the stew outta it.  Frappe, mon cheri, like you're on steroids.

Hmm.  Tastes a lot better.  Spoons, beaters, and fingers are now licked with great enthusiasm.  But....

Yeah.  You got it.

The cake isn't done yet.  A cake isn't meant to stay as batter.

A cake is meant to be a cake.  And to do that... uh huh.

It's gotta get baked.

And ovens are uncomfortable places.  Ovens, crucibles, forges.  They pretty much suck when it comes to comfort.  But prove invaluable to The Culmination.

The Baking is that which shows me that I will never be batter again.

Another pull of the Elixir of Knowledge brings up a few instances.

Teddy Roosevelt's charge up San Juan Hill.

Audie Murphy's heroic stand on a burning tank destroyer.

A small shepherd boy with 5 small stones standing against a giant.

And the 3 Hebrew teens who wouldn't disrespect their God and were thrown, not into an oven, but into an incinerator.

The Baking is never comfortable but it is always necessary.  It's what makes the batter turn into that thing the batter was meant to be.

Still, I'm all that fond of The Baking.  It's not fun.

It's restrictive.

Dark.

Scary.

And it seems that change is never without pain...without struggle...and bone-bending fatigue.

Yeah.

The final dregs of Elixir wash up a last thought.

"All things work together for good..."

"I will never leave you or forsake you..."

"Who will not let you be tempted beyond that which you are able..."

Huh.

The Baker keeps His unblinking eye on the cakes while they bake.

He loves His cakes.  Very much.

Too much to let them just stay and lay around as batter.

Nope.  He can't let that happen.  He promised He wouldn't.

So, fellow Doughboy, if you're in the oven, like me, please know that He's keeping a watchful eye on us...and that makes The Baking an incredibly wonderful thing.

Not comfortable...

...just wonderful.

The Rites of Almost-Summer

The Rites of Almost-Summer have been accomplished.  Tommy's is open and the first backyard fire has been lit, enjoyed, and doused.

Here in our little town, we have a local joke that gets more knowing nods than it does smiles.

"Summer was beautiful last year.  It came on a Wednesday."

Growing up in Iowa, we'd go to decorate the gravesites on Memorial Day with fresh cut peonies from the big flower patch by the Summer House.  Up here in the Northwoods we enjoy peonies on the 4th of July.

There is a general Rule of Thumb for when Spring officially starts.  There has to be no frost on the windshield for at least 8 days in a row.  (Yeah, I hear it, too - that Beatles song. "8 Days A Week".  It's OK.   It just means you're old...-er.)

Sometimes Spring coincides with the Rites of Almost-Summer.

Sometimes not.

The Rites of Almost-Summer happen around Memorial Day.  Tommy's is this little mom'n'pop walk-up burger place on the corner across from the old Railroad Depot.  They've remodeled this year by adding a couple of small picnic tables under the eaves.  Now there's three ways to enjoy arterial coagulation - standing up at the outdoor counter, the traditional sitting on the curb, or the new picnic tables.  Even with the Golden Arches only 2 1/2 blocks away, Tommy's (previously the "Holiday Spot") has been holding it's own for years.

You know Summer's comin' when you can get a Tommy Burger with a side of nachos, finish 'em off while curb seating, and your biscuits haven't frozen.

The other Rite is that first backyard fire.

It should be pointed out that this is an intentional fire, confined to a specific area, so as not to be confused with the Rite of Fall, that autumnal burning of the leaves which ends up scorching a large portion of yard - or the County, depending on wind and drought conditions.

I sat outside watching the fire as night settled over the Little-House-On-The-Corner.  The Wife was paying the toll for a weekend of gardening with a hot bath and an early collapse.  TechnoBoy was horizontal parade-rest preparing for his pre-dawn work hours at the Store.

It was just me and the fire.   And an uninvited swarm of first-crop mosquitos.  I savored the smell of wood smoke and DEET while sipping the Elixir of Knowledge, staring at the flames. The sounds of the occasional dog barking at deer strolling the neighborhood and the hum of sporadic traffic on the main drag accompanied the quiet pop & crackle of the fire pit.

The best part of a fire?  It's commercial-free.  There are no bodily problems that need pharmaceuticals that cause more bodily problems. No new and improved formulas that insist I need to look like young, thin people.  Which, if I'm honest, wouldn't be a bad thing.

But with a fire, I have the chance to just sit and think.

About everything and nothing.

Halfway through the Elixir, I remembered what on guy told me about winter.  He said back in the day, the Elders called winter "Story Time".   It was when the stories of the People, the families, were handed down to the next generation.

Huh.

Growing up we didn't have "the fire".  We weren't an outdoorsy bunch.  We had sofas, chairs, coffee, and family.  I remember sitting around the table in Aunt Vi's kitchen, listening to Uncle Joe and Dad swap stories about WWII.  No blood and fighting.  Just the fun, quirky stories that kept them sane during the insanity of war.

They also had great stories about growing up in a small town during the Depression. Stories full of high jinks and mischief, bigger-than-life characters, and semi-truthful outcomes.

Looking up past the streetlights glow, I recognized a couple of constellations.  Imagine all those fires over the centuries, all those nights that were truly night.  Just the stars, the moon, and the glowing faces around the fire.

All those stories shared, connecting the present to the past.

Huh.

The flames disappeared into the glow of orange coals as the last pull of the Elixir of Knowledge uncovered a question.

Where are the fires of today?  The "fire stories"?

There's so much information available.  Kilobytes in nanoseconds.  But the stories that tie us to who we are and why we are - where do we get those?

Yeah.

That's what I thought, too.

Fire stories come from folks who love us, stories shared by investing that most precious of currencies - their time.

I doused the fire with an ice cream bucket of water, listening to the hiss of steam as the yard went dark.  My jean pocket began to vibrate and chime.  Digging out the phone I saw a text from the DAGU (Daughter All Grown Up).  She'd sent some new pictures of the still-under-warranty granddaughter, complete with thumb-typed commentary.

What great timing, eh?  Another fire story...

Sidetracked

Almost two hours ago I sat down to do another blog.  Before I typed anything, I reread the last one.

And that lead me to the 2nd to the last one.

Then the 3rd to the last one.

I found myself clicking on the little "edit" button, changing a word here, a phrase there.  Browsing.  Dusting off stories.  Working my way down the aisle.

Two hours later...and what do I have to show for it?

The previous ten lines.

Yeah.

If you've read this far, I'm really sorry.

You got hosed.

And it isn't gonna get any better.

I'll try again tomorrow.  And there'll be no reading of bygone thoughts.

Right to work.

I promise.
 

Doin' The Math

Waking up on the sofa, I find that the dawn didn't wait for me.  The sky's already blushing pink and glowing gold, a veritable symphony of colors and light.  I try to move which creates my own symphony.  My joints and sundry body parts make music that wouldn't qualify as easy listening.  A few of the notes, I'm sure, would be deemed socially inappropriate in public meetings and restaurants.  And possibly even crack houses.

Another night on the sofa trying to breathe.  I fight my way out of the five pillows that prop up my Leaning Tower of Wheeza and stumble to the Reading Room.

Huh.

Ever since I awoke to cognizance, I've been thinking about zeroes.

Zeroes.  The ninja of integers.  Unseen yet mighty.  The numerical version of garlic in a sauce.

You see, I grew up with Schoolhouse Rock.  Our kids grew up with Schoolhouse Rock.  We still have all the VHSs.  And one of my favorites was "My Hero, Zero".

Zero.

I redirect my staggering to the kitchen where I concoct the Elixir of Knowledge.  That accomplished I lean into a banking right turn that builds up enough speed to cover the five foot distance to the dining room table in non-record time.

Zero.  We all want zeroes.  I mean, really, I've said it.  You've probably said it.  We look at our paychecks and say "wish it had more zeroes".

And I've always kinda looked at zeroes that way.  The more, the merrier.  The more, the better.

But my second pull of the Elixir evokes a thought that brings my hero down to something even less than mortal.  Less than normal.

Huh.

A zero is...nothing.  It would seem to be something, the way it fills in the columns, easily pushing the decimal point far away, like a sumo wrestler working an abacus.  Flick.  Zip.

But the zeroes are nothing.  It's the other numbers that are something.  All the zeroes in the world defer to the littlest of numbers.  $0.01 beats $000,000,000.00.

A deep pull of the Elixir brings up a disturbing question.  How much of my life have I've spent chasing zeroes? Accumulating zeroes?  Accumulating nothing.

Hmm.  A cup of cold water would be a nothing.  A zero.  But He said do it in His name and it's a reward.  It becomes...something.  It has worth.

Maybe that's the way to having something.  Maybe it's not trying to get as many zeroes as I can.  Maybe it's doing that little dinky thing He's telling me to do.  Some little insignificant thing.

And He says He'll add the zeroes to it.

But I need to do that little "1".  Or "2".  Or "5".  Whatever it is He wants me to do.  And He'll add the zeroes.  5 loaves.  2 fish.  He added the zeroes and a multitude was feed.

Huh.

Another pull and the Elixir of Knowledge gently smacks me a V-8 head thump.  I guess that's where I screw up.  I get so hung up on how impressive the zeroes look - how important they make me look - when they are really...nothing.

Just wood, hay, and stubble, if even that.  Stuff with no substance.  Stuff you can make disappear with a matchstick.

I guess today I'll look for those "penny things" He wants me to do. Those little things,  The simple opportunities He brings my way. Like a penny on the sidewalk.

Investing in a penny-cup of cool water maybe.  What ever He wants me to do.  Where ever He wants me to invest it.   And the really cool part about this?...

I'll let Him add the zeroes.
 

5 Small Stones & 2 Little Squishes

I'm sitting here at the closest of three coffee shops in the greater metropolitan area of our small town.  How, you might ask, does a little town like this support three coffee shops?

It can be summed up in one word.  Winter.  Here we have eight months of snow and a four month break of "bad sledding".  We need to get out and drink hot things.

So I sit here in the corner, drinking an Elixir Of Knowledge they call "Nite Owl".  It's roasted and ground just 30 feet to my left and brewed just 15 feet to my right.  They call it Nite Owl due to the caffeine content.  You ain't sleepin' if you drink this stuff.

It's like filling up Phlegm the Taurus at the gas station pump labeled "Racing Fuel".

Vrroom, baby.

This morning I need something to cut the fog and the funk.  It's been one of those weeks.

Life seems to be in flux.  Relationships are changing.  Work is changing.  The body is changing.  And none of the changes seem to be positive.  Things seem off-kilter.  And it's not a comfortable feeling.  Like sitting in church and realizing you have an extra sock stuck in your underwear.  There's really nothing you can do but hang in there and wait it out.

A pull of this Elixir blasts out a memory.

Huh. Yeah.  It feels like that, too

I'm flashing back to grade school.  I just traded a kid my cookie for his hot dog and another kid a nickel for his.  A three hot dog lunch.  And now, at recess, I'm stuck on the merry-go-round as five kids try to make it go fast enough to take off.  Just hang on, baby.  Hang on.

I know this is not deemed a positive attribute in today's world but I like the status quo.  The mundane.  The "stuck in a rut" lifestyle that has me settling into the muck and silt of my nice little stream.   Life flowing by.  Me watching it flow by.  Just a stone in a brook.

The next pull of  the Elixir Of Knowledge jolts me hard.  Oh my.

And we're off...

In my mind's eye I have become that smooth stone in a small brook.  The water swirls slowly past, the light dappled, the world blurred except for my immediate surroundings .  Things are content.  Static.  And I'm surprisingly okay with that.

And then two small squishes move the stream bed in front of me.  The squishes come from two small sandaled feet.  Suddenly a small hand plunges into my watery world.  It pushes me, rolling me over before yanking me from the stream bed.  Pulling me out of my world into something different.

Waaaaay different.

I lay in this small hand as a breeze - a totally new experience - blows across me.  There's a warmth that I've never felt before as light hits me directly and unfiltered.

Wow.  This is amazing!  I could stay here forev-

The hand suddenly closes and I'm dropped into darkness.  No light. No water. No breeze.

Just the dark.  And a jarring motion that causes me to roll back and forth in the dark.  Then the motion stops, leaving me waiting.  Alone in the dark.

Suddenly there's light and the familiar hand.  But it puts me into darkness again.  But this time the motion goes round.  And round.  Faster.  Then terrifyingly faster.  The world is reduced to the dark, spinning out of control.

And then light.  And wind.  And incredible speed as I fly toward a mammoth face that is screaming in rage.  I slam into it, just missing the edge of a thick, metal helmet.

I sink and stick, like I'm back in my brook. And the screaming has stopped.  It's quiet, deathly quiet as I see the ground rush up to meet me.  And it's dark once again.

But now I hear a loud, earth-shattering cheer and feel the ground tremble as a multitude pounds by, rushing forward to victory.  And now I'm back in the coffeehouse.

Okaaaay.

I carefully put the Elixir down as I blink my eyes.  Now that - that's some kinda coffee.

I get up, stretch, and get a refill.  Letting it cool, I sit and stare at the wall, letting my mind process this newest of stories.

And I realize that He has a reason for the dark and the spinning.  And it might have more to do with what He wants to do for others than what I want to have done for me.

One little, flying stone changed the course of history.  But it wasn't the stone.  It was the One who chose it, who placed it in the right spot, and then gave it power to do what needed to be done.

Huh.  I guess we're all just stones in His hand.  And we all have something incredibly impossible to do.  But He makes the impossible possible.

By His power. And by His arm.

All in His timing.

And, yeah, my fellow stones, it's not fun - all this spinning in the dark.  Frankly, it sucks.

But, oh momma, just wait'll He lets us fly...

Hyphenated and Overcaffeinated...

It's regular morning time on the weekend.  A lazy time.  Just drinkin' the Elixir Of Knowledge at the table in the Dining Room portion of the Dining/Living/Computer/Family Room as the day takes shape.

Outside the window, only four feet away, there's a morning new enough to still be under warranty.  Suddenly a huge raven drops past the window, making me jump.  Disappearing for a second, it now hops out into the yard, its ebony beak firmly clamped on a dead sparrow that had unsuccessfully tried to fly through the newly-cleaned thermopane.  A quick look around and the big bird rockets off.

Huh.  Don't see that too often.

The Wife has piano duty for both Saturday night and Sunday morning services.  All three of us went to the Saturday service, so this Sunday morning finds the men of the Little-House-On-The-Corner hangin' out.

I'm at the keyboard, looking out the window, and thinking how Nature takes care of the dead.  TechnoBoy staggers by on his way to the Reading Room, making a sound that was either a "hello" or an attempt to cough up a hairball.

II listen to the kitchen radio as I sip the Elixir Of Knowledge, waiting for inspiration to run into me like a sparrow into a clean window.

The guy on the radio is the type I ‘d like to have coffee with...a great sense of humor, a catchy Scottish accent, and profound insights shared in a conversational tone - not barked or screamed like a disgruntled coach.  I like this guy.

And he brings up "the hyphen".

Huh.

Never thought about that.

The Elixir Of Knowledge grabs the idea and runs with it.

Hyphens.

I google it.  A hyphen is the Elmer's glue of the grammar world, sticking two or more words together.  It even glues a word together when the page isn't wide enough.

But wait...there's still more!  (…sorry…commercial flashback.….)

If a space is added to each side of the hypen, it then becomes a "dash".  An "en dash", to be exact.

And a dash means "to", as in "The Complaint Department is open from 3:29 - 3:30 AM on a Thursday to be announced."

So give a hyphen a little elbow room and it can stick things together that are a lot bigger than words.   Whichis the point of the Radio Pastor as he talks about the content of our lives.  And our tombstones.

Wow.

One day, on my tombstone, somebody will carve a birthdate and a death date.  In between those dates will be a dash.  A little line that will contain my entire life.

Everything I've done and had been will be in that chiseled little line.

Gives a new twist to the idea that "Life is short", eh?   It's a flash drive that holds the encyclopedic knowledge of all my thoughts, actions., dreams and fears.

Immediately the Elixir Of Knowledge pushes the picture of a tombstone to the front of my mind. 

It's a not a tombstone we'd find around here.  It's more of a big stone that covered a tomb.  And it has chiseled on its face a birthdate, a dash, and a death date…then there's another dash followed by that side-ways “8”, the symbol for infinity..

Because He lives.

And within the history of my dash I had given Him my life.   So He gives me another dash. One that sticks me with Him - forever.

Incredible, eh?

The final sip of the Elixir brings another commercial to mind.  (What's with these commercials?!)

"What's in YOUR wallet?"

But that's not quite right.

It all boils down to this...

"What's in YOUR dash?"

Excuse Me...And You Are...?

Have you ever Googled yourself?

I just did.

I'm not on the first page.  Or the second.  Or the third.

Yeah.  It's taking awhile to get to me.

Lotta people ahead of me with the same name.  Doctors, pastors, professionals, an All-American football player, and a few dead guys.

And they're from all over - Illinois, New York, Iowa, South Carolina, Canada...even Scotland.

There's a lotta people out there.  And it's easy to feel kinda small.  Kinda insignificant.

I remember feeling that way as a freshman at a small college.  Of course, "small" is a relative term.  It was about 10 times bigger than my high school.  10 times more people and I didn't know anyone.

I remember talking to one of the guys on the dorm floor and noticing a poster in his room.  Back then we didn't have memes at the push of a button.  We had posters with thumbtacks.

And his poster did nothing for my self-esteem.  It was a 3 foot by 2 foot picture of the entire Milky Way galaxy.  At the far left edge, almost off the paper, was a small sign with a tiny red arrow pointing at this little-bitty dot of a speck...and the small sign said:

"You are here."

Yeah.  Thanks.  Not that much help.

So I'm reading this morning in I Kings about Solomon building the Temple and hiring a guy from Tyre by the name of Hiram.

Now this guy must've been impressive, cranking out amazing things in bronze.  A true artist.

Verses 41-45 sums up everything he did in the previous 25 verses.  The stuff Hiram made just knocked their socks off when the folks walked up to the Temple.  Shining, bronzey, and beautiful.  Truly amazing works of art.

But earlier, before Hiram shows up and steals the show, there's a description of what was in the Holy of Holies...the reason the Temple was built in the first place...the place where God lived with man.

Standing in the Holy of Holies were two cherubim.  They were carved intricately out of olive wood.  They stood side by side (if I'm reading this correctly), each one towering 15 feet high, with a wingspan of 15 feet.

Big angels.

The outside tip of their wings touched the opposing wall and the inside tip touched each other's inner wing.  And then everything was covered in gold.  Pure gold.

Imagine coming into a room where there's 450 square feet of golden angel looking down on you.

And yet there's no mention of the guy or guys who built these incredible things.  It just says Solomon had them covered in gold.  And that's it.

And these massive angels were blocked from sight by an equally massive curtain that separated the Holy of Holies from the rest of the Temple.

Once the Temple was dedicated, no one else in the country got to see them except one guy -  the High Priest on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

No one else.  Not even the king.  Or the Temple janitor.

Huh.

I sip my third cup of the Elixir of Knowledge and my mind asks me a question.

Nuts.

And it wants an honest answer.

Nuts.

I hate when it does that.

And the question is:  "If I had the skill to do either job, but I could only do one, which one would I chose?  The bronze job where everybody admires my skill on public display or the gold job where it's God and an annual visit by one guy.   Which one would I take?"

Well, I'd like to say absolutely it would be the Gold job and God.  But that wouldn't be totally honest.  I might very easily be persuaded to take the Bronze job so I get noticed, get famous, and make the big bucks.

All jobs, if directed by Him and done for Him, are worthy.  Even dispensing cups of cool water to the thirsty and feeding ham salad sandwiches to the hungry.

There's something  in Proverbs somewhere...yeah, that's it.

"Anyone skilled in their work will not stand before obscure and unimportant people.  They will stand before kings."

Huh.

So whatever He gives me to do, I hafta go for it.  Give it my best shot.  Whether it's passing out Kool-Aid to Children's Church kids or running a multi-national company.

And I do it whether anyone else ever notices me or not.

But He always notices.  And the last time I checked, (and I'm pretty sure thing's haven't changed), He is the King of Kings.

And I can't get noticed any better than that.

Bunk Beds & Wooden Pews

I was at work yesterday afternoon, the 2 o'clock fog swirling through my mind as I stared at the computer screen.  And through the fog, I heard it.

A remembrance of times long past, wafting out of the radio.

Elton John was singing "Your Song"

In a fraction of a second I traveled back 45 years to find myself again in an unfamiliar college dorm room.  An hour before, my folks had dropped me off with hugs and kisses.  They were on their way back home to Iowa, leaving me - an almost 18-year-old newbie college freshman - in Illinois.

I remember sitting on the bottom bunk, staring out the window as the cars drove by on the Tri-State Toll Way.  And I remember that I very much wished I was in one of 'em,, heading home like they seemed to be doing.

Unpacking a year's worth of stuff helped me find the nightstand radio.  Plugging it in, I fiddled with the dial and found that familiar Top 40 sound that flowed through the late '60's and would spill over into the early 70's.

I resumed my vigil by the window.  And that's when Mr. John sat down next to me and sang his song.  And then James Taylor sat down on the bunk and sang "Fire & Rain".

Yeah.  Music makes us remember.

My dad, toward the end of his life, liked to play the sounds of the Big Bands, the '40s.

Remembering when he and the other young lions fought in the Pacific.

Back when the world heard them roar.

The church service this week was like that.  Well, kinda.  The words were those I remembered hearing while seated on hardwood, unpadded, non-air-conditioned pews. However the modern Christian praise tune put to the words was unknown to my ears...which made singing pretty much impossible.

It's kinda like having two different songs playing at the same time and trying to sing along.  That's even tough for us who sing monotone.

But the words took me back.  I remembered.

And praise, I think, is being thankful for something remembered.

Thanking the One who made the memories, who has loved me - and you - since Time began.

So even if I don't know the tune - even if I don't know the song - I can still praise Him.

Because I remember...

Pondering Soap & Shampoo

I think a lot in the shower.  There are two reasons for this pervasive pondering.

I'm not quite awake yet so I don't move much.  And since there's not that much room to move, I just stare and think until I'm somewhat cognizant of my surroundings.

Which is usually about three minutes before the hot water runs out.

This morning, during the 3-minute interlude between hot and cold, the cacophony of aromas on the tub surround pushed its way to the front of my senses.

I had never really noticed that "abomination of olfactation" before.

Now towel-dried, shaved, dressed, and in my right mind, I'm sitting next to a cup of the Elixir of Knowledge and the nine bottles of various products I picked up on my way to the Dining/Living/Computer/Family Room.

There are seven from the bathroom and two from the kitchen sink.  And all but one sound like they've come off a menu at a restaurant that doesn't serve breakfast.

Here they are, the scents of a consumer society,  and presented in no order of relevance. Their only reason for being here is either price or coupon.

Lemon-scented

 Raspberry-vanilla

Energizing citrus, (as opposed to "suck-the-life-outta-you" citrus)

Nourishing vanilla...(you taste it, not me....hey, let's give it to Mikey)  (You "boomers", ya get that reference?)

Kangaroo (I think it means from Australia...I don't think it's derived from 'roos)

Honey essences (another word for the honey that didn't make the cut at the factory; like the chicken essences in chicken soup)

Honey essences to use after the other honey essences (huh...a matched set...definitely coupon items)

Rosemary and mint (without the lamb chop)

And there's one more...

Soap.  99.44% pure.  (Boomers, ya got this one, too - right?)

Wow.  Just soap.  Nothing flashy, flavorful, sexy, or trendy.  Just soap.  Almost pure soap.

'Cause really, it all comes down to this sequence:  stink, soap, clean.

We wanna be clean.  And we can't do it ourselves.  We tend toward "stink".

A swig of the Elixir of Knowledge scrubs a thought, making it shine in the early-morning light.

Yeah.  I guess that's true.

Really, in our lives, it all comes down to this sequence:  sin, grace, forgiveness.

We wanna be clean.  We wanna be forgiven.  But we can't do it ourselves.  All the self-talk, the busyness, the distractions...it's all just throwing blankets over the baby's full diaper.

But He can make us clean by His grace because He paid the price so He could.

Grace.  100% pure.  No additional additives.  No marketing or hype.

Just grace.

And that, my fellow stinker, is that wonderful scent of being 100% clean.
 

Blast from the Past: "The Autograph"

It's presently dark, the dawn still a couple of hours away.

I'm up, the other 2/3 of the family will be rolling out shortly.  Today we're gonna go to the City and see The DAGU & The SIL (Son-In-Law).

Things will be a bit hectic for the weekend and I really want to post something.  All 5 of you take the time to visit and there oughta be at least a snack or something to munch on.

So I again revert to that homemade bastion of brevity - leftovers.  Leftovers are quick, can be plopped on tables, and presented without flourish.  But, hey...you guys are special and I appreciate your visits, so let's try some flourish.

"Taa-daaaaaaa".

Okay...

Flourish is a subjective thing.

How 'bout a little background into the making of this leftover?  That might help.  Maybe.

When this was written The DAGU (Daughter All Grown Up) and the Fiance (who are now husband & wife, expecting their 1st, and the reason for the City trip) were coming to the Little-House-On-The-Corner for Easter.  Due to work, weather, and being young, they were running late.  Really late. That's where the story picks up - early Easter morning, a couple of years ago...

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At a quarter after 3 on Easter morning, I opened the door to greet the DAGU and the Fiance.

Hugs and quiet greetings filled the Living/Dining/Family/Computer room of the Little-House-On-The-Corner.

"Here, Dad."  The DAGU's grin was laughing. I looked at the Fiance as I took the black cardboard box.  He was grinning, too.

Inside there was a Green Bay Packer football helmet.  A replica, its called.
It would fit a 3rd Grade PeeWee football player - if he was, indeed, a peewee.

It glistened as I turned it, shiny and new.
Nice, I thought, a nice gift from a DAGU who knows her dad's heart.

And then I saw the black scrawl across the left side of the helmet.

Huh.

What's this?, I asked.

Their smiles got bigger.

"That's where Coach McCarthy signed it, Dad!"

Suddenly the value and worth of this small helmet rocketed up the charts to  "My Preeeeeeciousss" status.

The Coach had signed this with his own Sharpee!
His own unique signature.

And then the DAGU fired up her smartphone to show me pictures of herself standing next to the Coach - and wearing his Super Bowl ring!

Ohhhhh my.

I looked down at the autographed helmet shining in my hands.
I felt like Sheldon when Penny gave him that autographed napkin from Leonard Nimoy.

("Big Bang Theory" reference.  It's okay if you don't get it.  Really.)

Ohhhhhhh wow.

It's now about 48 hours later.  The Kids have gone back to the City.  It's early-morning-dark and the house is quiet.

I take a pull of the Elixir of Knowledge.

Huh.

Isn't it amazing what an autograph can do to an ordinary, nothing-special object?

A pull of the Elixir erodes the top of a thought.  Another healthy sip makes it visible.

Whoa.

We're something more than just "us" - because He touched us.

And He wrote His name on us with something more lasting than a Sharpee.

Something priceless and precious.

And red.

And now we're priceless.  And precious.

But it's not our own doing.

It's His touch and His autograph.

Wow.

Autographs make for some pretty important stuff, eh?

There's Leonard Nimoy's napkin.
And Coach McCarthy's helmet.

And then there's you and me.
 

Sunday Morning, 33 A.D.

The soft sound of leather scuffing stone nudges her awake.  Raising her head, she sees a sad, smiling face in the circle of candlelight.

"Would you like to come with us?"

The Magdalene struggles upright to stare at the candle. She drags the back of a hand over dried tears.

Silently the three women move through the snoring bodies of the Rabbi's disciples.  One of them starts to sit up, a dream bringing his outstretched hand up and grasping.  They step around Peter as he sinks back into sleep.

Softly closing the gate, the three pause to re-position their baskets.  A heavy sigh and muffled sobs escape the group as they move away.

Eyes begin to adjust to the darkness of the narrow street.  Once free of the city walls, moonlight paints the path in silver and shadow. They walk on, each carrying their own burden and sorrow.

A whispered thought pierces the silence.

"The stone.  How will we move the stone?"

"God will take care of it."

A pause. Another whisper.

"And the soldiers?"

The pace of the women slow at the danger of being in a secluded spot with soldiers.

The quiet, strong voice of the Magdalene helps them regain their pace.

"And He will take care of that as well."

They turn onto the small path that moves towards the tomb of the Arimathean.  The memories, raw and fresh, bring silent tears.

They follow the path around a huge boulder and stop.  The moonlight shows them what they fear.

A small contingent of Roman soldiers stand at attention on either side of the path while a group of Temple guards sprawl by the entrance to the tomb, some sitting, some reclining, most asleep.

An older man with a leader's bearing barks an order as he approaches the women, his sword drawn.  The squad of young Romans clumsily move to flank both sides of the Centurion, hastily blocking the path..  Behind them the Temple guards struggle to their feet, moving with the unsteadiness of the newly-awakened.

The women freeze as the Centurion strides to within sword's reach and drop their gaze to the ground.   His granite face barks out a question.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"

"We have come to finish the burial, sir.  We have brought spices and cloths."

"LOOK AT ME!"

Three heads swing up in unison, locked by the fierce grey eyes before them.  A pause as recognition softens his voice.

"You.  You were there?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you two.  You were there, too?"

Heads nod as their eyes go back to the ground.

The Centurion steps back as he sheathes his sword.

"I..."

The women's faces lose all shadow as an intense gold light bursts past the soldier.

A silent explosion flings the Centurion to his knees, blowing off his helmet and scattering unconscious men like storm sand.  The women stand, their robes and scarves motionless.  No force touches them.  Only the golden light.

The Centurion struggles to his feet, fighting for balance as he turns toward the tomb.  His eyes widen in fear.

It's a man.  A towering giant who shines like sunrise.  Power pulses from him, hitting the Centurion like heavy surf from a thousand beaches.  The Roman falls forward, slowly, as if in a dream, hjis eyes fixed on that huge smiling face.

A joyous thunderclap of a laugh explodes as the shining one turns toward the tomb.  A huge hand brushes away the massive stone as if it were crumbs on a table.

The three women stand, waiting.

The towering figure sits on the fallen stone and leans forward to place elbows on knees.  His smile shines brighter, his voice gentle as the faintest breeze.

"Do not be afraid.  I know you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified."

The glowing smile nods toward the opening of the tomb.

"He is not here."

Getting to his feet, he looks down at the women then lifts his gaze to the sky, turning slowly as if in the Arena.  Suddenly a huge, blazing fist punches toward the stars in victorious salute. He roars the words that ignite tumultuous cheering in Heaven and terrified screams in Hell.

"He - is - RISEN !"

300 of this, 300 of that...

Technology is helpful.  Once you know how to turn the stuff on.  So mornings are usually started with a cup of the Elixir of Knowledge and the laptop.

One button pushed, a couple of clicks and, voila, my byte from the Word appears on the screen.  Daily nourishment for the soul with minimal output on my part.  Gotta love it.

So yesterday I read the story of Gideon.  He started with about 32,000 guys.  Still outnumbered about a hundred to one, but hey, the guy and his boys showed up to play.

Then it went down to 10,000 guys.  Then it went down to the water where only 300 kept their eyes up, looking for the enemy, while the rest faceplanted and slurped.

300.

Huh.

The Elixir immediately brings up the other 300.  Leonidas and the 300 Spartans.

Pretty much the same situation.  Buncha bad guys.  A BIG buncha bad guys - like the "grains of sands on the beach" number of bad guys.

Midianites and Amalekites for Gideon.  Persians for Leonidas.  Po"taa"toe.  Po"tah"toe.

Both 300s were brave.  Very brave.  But the tactics were quite different.

Both leaders used geography to their advantage.  Leonidas held the narrow Hot Gates at the pass of Thermopylae.  Gideon ringed the ridges around the sleeping army in the valley.

But one 300 went in their own strength, the other in His Strength.  One was a glorious defeat with the 300 dead and the Persian advance delayed.  The other, a glorious victory with 300 alive, completely routing the Joint Armies and driving 'em from the land.

"I think I'll go with Gideon for 300, Alex."

Another cup of the Elixir causes introspection of personal battles fought against unseen adversaries, most of my own making.

Huh.

I have a tendency to be about 2/3 Spartan and 1/3 Gideonite.  I let Him lead, following in faith...and then I break ranks and charge, tired of waiting, needing to do something.  Needing to be in charge.

Yeah.

A man of action...not a man of smarts.

Kinda like the guy walking down a blistering, dusty road at noon, carrying a huge backpack and duffle bag and sweating profusely.

This old guy pulls up in a nice pickup and offers him a ride.  The guy says "thanks" and climbs into the back, sitting down on the wheel well, his pack still on his back, the duffel across his lap.

"Hey, son," smiled the old timer, "why dontcha ride up in the cab wit' me?  Got da air-conditionin' on."

"Oh, sir," said the sweating man, "you've been nice enough to give me a ride.  I can't let you carry my gear, too."

Yeah.  The sweaty guy is my doppelganger.  I have looked just like him.  And on more than one occasion.

I think that's why He had Gideon and the boys hold a trumpet in one hand and a torch in the other.  Couldn't get to their swords and screw things up...couldn't take things into their own hands.

Sometimes the fight isn't mine.  It's His.  And He can easily handle it without my help.  He only requires two things on my part - Trust and Obey.

Those are really the only two things He asks of me in a fight...that I grab ahold of Trust with a lockjaw grip and then reach out and lockdown on Obey.  If I concentrate on that, I can't screw things up...just like my ancient ridge-running brothers, their hands obediently full of what was needed.

Well, I better get movin'.  There's things to do, places to go.

Battles to win.

OK...got my jar and torch.  Now...where did I put that trumpet?

Weighing Changes

The Wife went out about two weeks ago and came back with a book.  A health book.  A health book about losing weight.  With a blender.

Every morning the house was filled with the sounds that one usually finds during Spring Break in Magueritaville.   And on the third day came the announcement.

"I'm down five pounds!"

And the even more intriguing announcement.

"And I haven't been hungry."

After three decades of marriage, I knew I needed a response, something more than a grunt.

"Hey.  Great.  What's for dinner?"

Please note that I did not claim to have the correct response.

I retreated to the Reading Room where I spied the scale.  It was a digital scale made especially for the very large.  With this particular scale, I could weigh almost all of the species of forest wildlife around here and, if I were still in Iowa, over 70% of barnyard critters .

Curiosity egged me on until I finally succumbed.  Stepping onto the scale, I looked down.

The LCD display said "ERR 2".

Perplexed, I hopped off, letting it reset and go blank.  I hopped back on.

"ERR 2"

Then it dawned on me.

I had pegged out the fat people's scale.

I walked into the Dining/Living/Family/Computer Room where The Wife was drinking her smoothie and watching the news.

"Say, uh, can I borrow your book?"

"Kitchen table.  Why the sudden interest?"

"No reason.  Just...curious."

I walked the eight feet to the kitchen, pulled up a chair, and started reading.

I never knew that spinach was a beverage.  Or that people actually drank it.  Voluntarily.

That was two weeks ago.  Finally six days ago I decided to try it.  And it was a...change.

I grew up in Iowa.  We had a dead animal at every meal along with some kind of potatoes and bread.  Every day.

Oh, yeah.  And desserts.  Sugar-laden, lard-filled, and incredibly delicious desserts.

And coffee.  The Elixir of Knowledge.  Gallons, lakes, reservoirs full of the aromatic dark stuff.

And for the last six days?

The early morning air has been filled with the screaming growl of a blender doing unspeakable things to greens, fruits, and protein powder.  And every morning it looks like "swamp-in-a-glass" with minor variations of flora...no fauna.

There's carrots, celery, fruit, and some nuts that fill in the rest of the day but for the most part it's "swamp-in-a-glass" for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

But this morning, Day 6, was kinda different.  Surprisingly different.

It tasted...good.  Almost normal.

The transformation is a little startling, this week-long change from carnivore to vegetarian.  Where it will go after the 10-day regimen is done, I don't know.

But I hope I will not be the same guy that hopped on that scale a week ago.  And I'm hoping I'll be a lesser man.

Funny. We sang about that last night at the Sturday night service.

Change.

And the Bible reading shared during worship was 2 Cor. 5:17.

More change.

Hmm.  Makes sense.

I change.  We all change. For better or for worse.

And we all get to choose which way it will be.

Yeah.

I'm being transformed by the renewing of the mind by His Word.  And now - the renewing of the body by 4 1/2 more blenders of "swamp-in-a-glass".

And if "ERR 2" message shows up tomorrow morning, that's OK.

I know it's gonna change.

Crying

It's not just a "rainy day" Monday today.

It's a tragic Monday.

This past week a friend of ours had a work accident.  Fell off some scaffolding.  Crushed his lower back.  We found out yesterday in church that he's paralyzed from the waist down.

He runs his own construction business, a craftsman at his trade.  He and his wife are young(er) grandparents.  He likes to hunt and fish and smile.

He's been a leader in their church for decades.  His laid-back leadership and guidance helped it sail through some bad storms, fly fast before the Spirit's wind, and rest steady during the calm.

And now this.

I have the same question as everyone else: "Why?".

Job wanted to know the "why".  His friends thought they knew the "why".  But it was really about the One who knows the "why".

Job's story talks to us and to angels 3,000 years later.  But the lofty idea of posterity takes a back seat to the present pain that rasps across each slowly passing minute.

So what do I do?  How do I help my friends when life just...sucks?

There's a story that just came to mind.

And the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.

"A guy pulls into his driveway, glad to be home from work.  He walks up to the front porch and sees his four-year old daughter sitting next to the little girl from next door.  They're both crying.  Not sniffling or frowning.  But crying.  Almost heartbroken.

Concerned, the guy crouches down and asks what's wrong.  His daughter looks at him with reddened eyes and sobs out:

"Amy's favorite doll broke and I'm helping her cry.""

I think that's it.

Cry, love, and pray.  It's all any of us can do.

He promised it'd all work together for good, that the "why" will someday be answered.

Just not right now.

Right now it's time to cry.

Saturday Morning, 33 A.D.

The dark air was stagnant with the smells of leather, metal, and men.

He sat on the hardwood bunk, his tunic-clad body hunched over, elbows on knees.  The other seven in The 8 On 12 were asleep.

Another early morning.  Yet he knew something had changed, was changing, Something important.

He rotated the folded fabric in his hands almost reverently.  He stared at the floor, his mind trying to see what was coming.

"Hey, Bull."

Blinking, he turned towards the whisper.  The perpetual grinning face of Lucius winked back from the next bunk.

"Couldn't sleep, big guy?"

Gaius looked down at the blood-stained tunic.

"No.  Rough night."

In one quick smooth motion, Lucius rolled out, over, and sat down next to his large friend.

Gaius had to smile.  Lucius "The Cat" was quick and deadly even when half-asleep.

Lucius nodded toward the cloth, his voice soft.

"Who'd ya get that off of"?"

The quiet grunt of a laugh escaped The Bull's craggy face.

"All those years of gambling with you idiots and I finally win......this.  A dead man's tunic."

Lucius held out his hand.

"The Golgotha detail?  I lucked out. Got to come back here for some rack-time."

Gaius gave him the cloth.  Lucius opened it up.

"Nice material.  Someone put some work into it.  So, who was this guy?"

Gaius leaned back, reliving it.  He shrugged.

"I dunno.  Some Jew, I guess.  The Old Man had me nail the judgment sign on the cross."

Lucius leaned forward to give the fabric back.

"What'd he do to win a rooftop view of Golgotha?"

No response.  The big man stared ahead, lost in memories.  Lucius slow-slid away then poked him.  Gaius' body jerked up and away as a huge hand slashed the air where Lucius had just been sitting.  Lucius grinned at his now fully-aware friend.

"So why'd we kill 'im?  What was on the judgment sign?"

Gaius shrugged again.

"Jesus.  King of the Jews,", The Bull chuckled at the memory. "The Old Man loved that.  Really ticked off the fat cats."

He shook his dark-haired head.

 "Dunno why the Governor is playin' footsie with those idiots.  It's not like they're Romans."

Understanding finally dawned on Lucius' face.

"He the guy at the Praetorium?  They beat him to a pulp."

The big man's face contorted in disgust.

"Yeah.  That's the guy.  Glad the Old Man kept us outta that.  Let the newbies and wannabes feel all tough and bad poundin'  a helpless man.  That's not being a soldier.  That's not war."

Lucius glided back and sat on his own bunk.  He locked eyes.

"Gaius.  What is it?"

The Bull looked away, his whisper fierce and angry.

"We killed an innocent man, Lucius.  The guy was no criminal.",  he swallowed hard, "We murdered an innocent man."

The two men sat amid the soft, sleeping noises of the others. Lucius broke the silence.

"We don't judge 'em, Bull, we just carry out the judgments.  We're not decision-makers.  We're order-takers.  Besides - ", The Cat stood and stretched his battle-scarred body, "how do ya know he was innocent?"

Gaius stood, setting the tunic reverently on his bunk.  He looked down at his small friend.

"His eyes, Lucius.  The love in his eyes.  He said he forgave us."

The two men moved noiseless down the hallway to the courtyard.  Stepping out into the dawn, they felt the prelude of a searing day in a dusty land.

Lucius stopped.

"Wait.  Whadda ya mean he forgave you?"

"The fat cats were mockin’ him.  The scumbags hangin’ on either side were swearin’ at him. The mob was screamin’ at him.  He looked at them all.  And then he looked at me."

Gaius looked up, reliving the moment,

"That's when he said it..."Father, forgive ‘em. They don't know what they're doin’.""

Lucius nodded as they continued down the street.

"So his dad was there.  That sucks."

"No, Lucius, that's just it.  He...he was talkin’ to God."

Lucius shot a sideways glance at The Bull.

"Well.  Crucifixion'll do that to ya."

Gaius shrugged, not convinced.

"A lotta people get religion at the end, Bull.  It's human nature."

"I'm thinkin' he was right."

"Right 'bout what?"

"That his father was - is - God."

Lucius tugged Gaius' arm as they turned into the mess hall.

"You're sayin' he was a Son of God, like, uh, Hercules?"

Gaius nodded as the realization hit him.

"Yeah.  I guess I am.  All the things that happened.  The dark at midday.  The earthquake when he died.  And I think the Old Man feels the same way."

"Wait-wait-wait.  You're tellin' me he died that afternoon?  That's not even a quarter of a day!  Nobody dies that quick on a cross."

Gaius shrugged.

"The fat cats had some big religious thing comin' up so they wanted everyone dead before they got all holy.  We had to break legs so they'd choke out.  I got the bludgeon.  I did the other two first, but when I got to him, he’s already dead.  The fat cats were yellin’ for the Old Man to make sure."

The big man rubbed his chin.

"But he knew.  And I knew."

"And then what?"

Gaius straightened up.

"The Old Man handed me his short spear and nodded.  I did a cross thrust, up and through.  Water and blood.  But he was long dead before I touched that spear."

"Bull, nobody dies that fast from a crucifixion!"

Gaius locked The Cat in a vice-like gaze.

"He died on a cross -  but that wasn't what killed ‘im."

"Gaius! Lucius!"

Immediate recognition caused both men to turn and snap to attention.

Centurion Flavius Maxis strode toward them in full armor,  years of disciplined service honing his movements into precision and efficiency.

The Bull and The Cat barked in unison.

"Sir!"

The Old Man's leathered face softened as he approached, his thoughts going to The 8 On 12.

12 on the sundial cast the shadow directly behind the gnomon, behind its back.  The 8 always had his back.  No enemy had every gotten through.  The enemy dead numbered in the hundreds that were unlucky enough to be across from The 8 On 12 in battle.

He liked that they called him The Old Man behind his back but never to his face.  Their loyalty was without question.  Their bravery and skill were unequaled in the Cohorte.

The Centurion managed a tired smile for two of his best.  He stepped forward to clasp Gaius on the shoulder then Lucius.

"You, Bull, will be in charge of The 8 On 12 until I return.  Cat, you are my witness to his charge."

"May I ask, Sir, where you're goin’?  And why aren’t we goin’ with ya?"

The Centurion sighed as his hands dropped.

"I have been asked by the Governor himself to oversee a guard detail for a dead man.  It seems that man we crucified has the Jewish politicians all upset."

The Old Man's eyes locked onto Bull’s.

"They said he told people he would rise from the dead in three days time.  And the leaders think his followers will steal the body to make it appear so."

The Old Man and The Bull held their gaze, confirming what they were now beginning to believe.

The Centurion looked over at Cat.

"But I don't think that will be the case ."

Lucius blurted out what both of the soldiers were feeling..

"But sir, if there's gonna be trouble, we oughta be with you."

A grim smile flickered across The Centurion's face.

"There are new recruits that need experience.  It would be best to get that against unskilled foes.  So -  get some chow, get some rest, and have that barracks spotless when I get back."

The Bull and The Cat stiffened to attention.

"Sir!"

The Old Man strode away, speaking over his shoulder.

"Besides, gentlemen, if this King of the Jews is who I believe he might be, we could take the entire Legion - and it wouldn't matter."

The Centurion strode down the deserted street and whispered to no one in particular.

"And if death can't stop him..."

Thoughts On A Citrus Pork Chop

The sun is rising, staining the horizon with a pink-orange smudge.  There are erratic clouds crayoned across the sky, like the scribblings of a sugar-ingesting three-year old on a living room wall.

Dark morning.  Dark mood.  Probably because of breakfast.

I tried something new for breakfast.  And I now realize that new things should be tried at dinner when you can still run out and get a burger, not in the predawn hours.

There was a pork chop in the 'fridge and a bottle of oriental citrus splash-type stuff in the cabinet when I reached for the salt'n'pepper.  My sister had donated the strange concoction to our family before she and the Bro-In-Law moved south to Nashville.

The bottle was almost full.  And now I know why.

I don't know what came over me.   Sleep deprivation probably.  A decision made in a pre-Elixir of Knowledge, early morning situation.  Like the decision Christian comedian Ken Davis made that became the title for one of his books:

"I Don't Remember Dropping The Skunk But I Do Remember Trying To Breathe"

Okay.  Maybe not that bad.  But close to the same aroma.

Being raised a good Iowa pork-feed boy, I wasn't going to waste a chop.  Even if it smelled like skunk.

So I ate it.  And another decision made before adequate Elixir consumption.

Note to self:  Prayer and coffee first.  Decision making second.

I am now on my 4th cup of the Elixir of Knowledge.  My palate is slowly returning to its normal halitosis as the Elixir scrubs my internal systems free of citrus stuff.

Heckuva way to start the day.

But it's not the poisoned pork chops fault.  Some days you just wake up, stagger out into the day, and fall flat on your face for a close-up view of the mud of life.

It's during those mud-staring times when the brilliantly glowing "Prime of Life" seems decades removed.  Things hurt and ache.  Tedium and routine cloy at the mind like cold fog.  Mistakes and regrets reach out with gnarled and dirty fingers, pulling my face deeper into the mud.

Man.  That pork chop's pushed me down the stairs and now I'm in the basement diggin' holes.

I look up to toss back the dregs of my 5th cup of the Elixir.  (It's okay - they're little cups. Sorta.)

And I'm looking out the window.

Whoa.

The horizon is now a thick shining band of gold.  The crayon scribbles of clouds are now glowing with vibrant pinks, purples, and reds.  It's a beautiful scene.

And it hits me.

The difference is the Light.

The clouds are the same.  It's The Light that makes them shine, that gives them that different, eye-catching hue.

"All things work together for good to those..."

Wow.

Life can get pretty scribbled.  And darkly clouded.

But His Light makes it all something breathtaking.  Something brilliant.

Scribbles become art.  Smudges become reflections of grace and beauty.

Which, I've found, is a much more positive transformation than what oriental citrus splash does to a breakfast pork chop.

Hey, 98.6 - It's Good to Have You Back Again...

Woke up on the sofa two hours before the morning does.

Yep, another night of vertical sleeping so the lungs are comfortable within that whole "exchanging-gases" system called "breathing".

Ever since the Chair went to visit the landfill, I've made due with 5 pillows, the Chain-Of-Lakes throw blanket, one piece of copy paper and a little tape.

The copy paper gets taped on the window to cover the light from the streetlight down the block.  I like to see the snow and the dark, but that one streetlight is right at eye-level.

Whatever works, eh?

I awoke and groped for the cellphone.  Punching the button I saw the time.  Oh.  And I actually felt wide awake.  Well.  Time to make the Elixir of Knowledge.

Then, out of habit, I punched the little icon for the weather.  Huh.

13 below.  Yesterday was the first morning in a week and a'half where the morning temp was above zero.  I swear I heard The Northwood's standing joke whisper in my ear.

"Summer was beautiful last year.  Yeah.  It was on a Wednesday.  It was a nice day."

I threw back the throw and was instantly motivated to get to the Reading Room and a hot shower, the temperature in the Dining/Living/Computer/Family Room far enough away from 98.6 to provide an urgency to the trip.

I'm sitting here an hour later, a hot cup of the Elixir of Knowledge next to the laptop and the faintest blush of gray outlining the black silhouettes of the eastern trees and houses.

Cold.

I already wrote about cold yesterday.

Cold is old.

I'm old and cold.

I'm wasting time making things rhyme.

Another long draught of the Elixir.  Therrrrrrrrrre we go.

Okay.

Huh.

Yeah.  That might be somethin'...

The Elixir is excavating a thought wrapped in a single word.

Hypothermia.

I think I've chewed on this before...probably last winter.  About this time.  When all of the local people start to talk to themselves and contemplate eating their young.

Winter is tough when it's long.  Like a long, popsicle-frozen millennia.

Anyway, hypothermia.  13 years of Search & Rescue, following dogs through the woods, has allowed our team to see what it can do and, on occasion, to experience its beginnings a few times (yeah, even the rescuers can get turned around every now and then).

The big thing about hypothermia is you're cold.  And getting colder.

And here's a weird statistic.  It's almost a 50/50 proposition that when the cold becomes deadly, folks will start to undress.  We found one gentleman in his skivvies and socks, still clutching his cane.  That one wasn't a happy ending.

Imagine being so cold that you think you're too warm.

When cold becomes warm.  Wrong becomes right.

When you can't tell the difference anymore.

If you set the hypothermic victim by a fire, they could easily get burned.  The bone-freezing numbness could allow burns that won't be felt until the damage is done.

The time-proven, safe way to treat hypothermia in an emergency in the toolies is a little more personal.  Put the victim in a sleeping bag, take off as much of your own clothing as is socially acceptable, and crawl into the bag with them.

Yeah.  You, them, and 98.6.

The sky is a lot lighter now.  I watch columns of heat rise on thin, straight clouds from the neighbors' chimneys.  Warmth going into a cold world.

We all need warmth.  The warmth of Someone that cares enough to get close and share the warmth when I'm so cold that I don't know what to do to get warm again.

That's why He came.  Why He's always reaching for me.  And you.

To hold us close.

So we never have to be cold again.

Oh, yeah.  I like that.

"Hey, 98.6..."