No Fences In Heaven

Feedback

2011-04-23T19:43:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking that it may be a good idea to let you guys see some of my book so that I could get some feedback. Lewis and Tolkien and all those guys called themselves The Inklings. We could be The Rinky-Dinklings or something. I think that would be fitting. I have been handwriting this stuff so I'll put some on computer here.

This book is a comedy.

Here is some material. I'll set the stage. Me and Joe decide to go on this road trip so I can become the next Charles Kuralt, Charles II. Joe signed on as my driver so we decided to work overtime at our jobs and save up money for two or three months of being on the road.

The Blow-Up

Joe and I worked like dogs for the next two months. Any overtime that was offered we took it and our bank accounts showed it. I was making so much money I had forgotten all about my writing career until one morning Joe called me and said "How's your money situation?"
"Good", I said, "it's real good."
Joe said, "Me too. Maybe it's time we took that trip."
"Trip?" I said "What trip?"
Joe hung up. I called Joe back. "Why'd you do that?" I yelled.
"You're an idiot!" he yelled back.
I hung up. Then it dawned on me that I was Charles Kuralt. Charles II.

Reconciliation

Fifteen minutes later Joe walked through my front door.
"I'm insulted," Joe said as he walked around my couch.
" Why's that?" I replied keeping an eye on Joe.
"I worked my tail off for 2 months, save up a boat-load of money, call you up and you forget about writing and everything!" Joe was on lap two.
"I know man, I feel like a clod," I said. I really meant it.
"With good reason," said Joe. "You are an embarassment to the writing community." He completed his third lap.
"I am an out of place comma."
"Undisciplined, forgetful, unfocused, unambitious." Joe was on his fourth lap around my couch.
" I'm a run-on sentence."
"Naive, unCharles-like." Joe was basically sprinting and yelling as he said this.
"I am the Sermon on the Mound and all the fans are screaming for a middle reliever and a closer."
"No, you are worse than that. You're already through the middle relief and all your closers and now you're bringing in the right fielder. Preacher, please just get us out the exits!" Joe had begun to shut 'er down and cruised into the pits.
"My brain needs ice after a sermon like that," I said.
"Amen," replied Joe as he slouched onto my couch apparently out of fuel. "So what's the plan boss-man?" he said.

If I could get someone to type the rest out for me, I might try to send you guys what I have so far.
Ben

Give me all your money

2011-04-12T18:50:00.000-07:00

I'd like to give you a little heads up about what I'm writing a book about. Even though I won't give you any of the text, I figured what few people read this blog still may be interested.

The story is about this guy who decides to become a writer.

There you have it. I will give no other hints. Unless I am bribed extremely well.

Sweet Beauty

2011-03-21T20:17:00.000-07:00

A shout out to my lovely wife. Four kids later and just as beautiful as the day I married her. Honey, if you ever read this, I love you.

Almost

2011-03-14T20:02:00.000-07:00

Almost gave you all a sneak peek at my new book. But I refuse. It will remain a mystery until it is complete.

Then you can all laugh and say, "what a dork. You spent all that time for this. Get a day job."
And that will be the stuff you say behind my back.

I might spend the rest of my life traveling around to different publishers pitching my book and getting rejected, a life of rejection, just because no one would tell me how horrid my book really was.

I may not ever fully recover.

I may need to go fishing in Michigan a couple weeks.

I may end up disillusioned and heart-broken. Sad and lonely. Unwanted, unloved, unloving.

The Golden Road context

2010-10-26T19:46:00.000-07:00

Hey, just to let you know, my last story, "The Golden Road" was a story I made up for Elijah at bedtime. I figured I'd post it for fun.

Golden Road

2010-10-20T18:52:00.000-07:00

Down the road walked a man and as he walked his beard was turning golden. His beard and the hair on his head was turning into a deep gold as he walked down the road.

It was rainy, more of a drizzle and the water was dripping off the orange leaves and falling on the road and the man's golden beard. When the man had started walking the road had been made of dirt and gravel and the drizzly rain made it a mess.

The trees had been full of green leaves and as the man walked and the gravel turned into brick the leaves had begun to change. As the brick turned into black pavement the leaves were almost in prime color and as the pavement turned into brilliant gold the leaves had reached there peak and stayed there.

And there the man was walking. The trees overhanging the road were dripping, dripping as he walked. His face was changing too. He had been an old man when he began walking. His face had been weathered and wrinkled and his head was white as wisdom.

But as he walked his white hair became peppered and then a solid black and then as golden as the sun. His face had become as fair and as fine as the morning.

He did not realize these things until he came upon a puddle. He came to the puddle and looked down and saw someone standing there with golden hair and a golden beard and the face of a young boy.

How far he walked he could not tell but as he walked down the road he saw a new color. He saw red. Away in the distance, far down the road was something red and he walked toward it.

As he got closer he saw that the red object was actually a door. A door with a shiny golden handle. It was a small door. A door small enough for only a small child to enter.

He turned the handle and opened the door. He went through the door and shut it behind him. He was home.

Faith on Fox

2010-10-01T04:27:00.000-07:00

I was flipping around t.v. stations last night and caught the tail end of an interview Bill O'Rielly was doing with Bill Maher. I do not know their main topic but right when I flipped to that station, Bill Maher said in derision, "And there are 60% of Americans who still believe Noah's ark was real." Oh man, that caught my attention.

They talked about Noah's Ark and O'Reilly, Catholic though he is, obviously had weak arguments as well. They spoke about different things and it sounded very Jr. Highish, meaning that neither guy really had any decent idea what he was talking about.

But they got into the discussion of faith and what it is. O'Reilly seemed to think faith was a blind leap into something, in this case, God. Maher thought there was no such thing as faith. He said the evidence was obvious. He said there was no evidence for God. He reasoned that from that evidence there was no God.

O'Reilly tried to convince Maher that everyone has faith, and that Maher's beliefs were just as much a leap as his own beliefs were. Maher tried to convince O'Reilly that there was no evidence for God and if O'Reilly had any brains, he would admit that. I was sitting there watching two men who obviously were not reading what the Bible itself said about faith. If they had they could have had an informed discussion.

They could have gone straight to the book of Hebrews, Chapter 11 and filed bankruptcy. Hebrews 11 not only tells us what faith is, it gives us illustrations of all the people who had it. It tells us that faith is not a blind leap, but involves reasoning from evidence. So Maher was closer to O'Reilly on what faith is. Maher just put his faith in man or in nothing or in the cosmos. O'Reilly was right, Maher had faith.

O'Reilly was wrong though in saying that faith was a leap. When most people say that, they mean it is a blind leap. I assume this is what O'Reilly was saying. It is the idea that belief in God is like cliff-jumping blindfold. The people around you say there is water down there, but until you jump you'll never know. And you may do a belly-smacker at the bottom. This is faith? Not according to scripture.

One illustration of faith comes from the story of Abraham sacrificing his son Isaac. Hebrews 11 tells us that Abraham was going to do it because he "reasoned" that God could raise the dead, and that God would raise Isaac back from the dead. Remember this, God had promised Abraham that Isaac would be his true heir. Abraham knew this while taking his son to sacrifice him. Abraham "reasoned" that if Isaac was his "heir of the promise", that God would have to raise him from the dead in order to make good on His own promise. Interesting that Biblical faith is a reasoning faith.

If you read Hebrews 11 you will see other examples of reasoning. In fact, if you read the Bible itself, you will see that people believed because of the evidence. People put faith in Jesus throughout the Gospels, because of the evidence. People continue to put faith in Him today, because of the evidence.

So ironically, Maher had a better definition of faith than O'Reilly. O'Reilly needs to go to Mass more often or consult his local priest.

Having said that, Maher needs to realize that true Biblical faith stems from the "evidence" presented to us in the Bible and the world around us. He also needs to realize that O'Reilly was right, Maher is a man of faith, it is just a faith placed in someone or something other than God.

P.S. Maher ridiculed Christians for believing a bunch of "children's stories". He said that was what the Bible was made up of. I was honored to be insulted in such a way. If Maher had actually read the Bible, he would realize there are no children's stories in there. Kids relate to Bible stories because they still easily recognize good and evil. But nowhere does the Bible claim to be for children. It is rated R in fact.

Where'd ya go?

2010-09-28T17:54:00.000-07:00

You may be thinking that after a couple months of inactivity on the blog. I'll tell you where I went. Crazy. My wife got sick for three months. My kids got kiddier for three months. I was gone for weeks. My brain is numb and I feel like drinking Dr. Pepper until I explode and die a fizzy death.

I am back.

The Law of Whine

2010-06-28T22:19:00.000-07:00

It is a great feeling to be playing a game and to be winning. I have experienced this phenomenon. You get used to it after a while.

Notice that I said it is a great thing to be playing a game and to be winning. I did not say “it is a great thing to be playing a game and to win.” Some of you thought I was patting myself on the back for my prowess in the world of game.

As I play games with my wife or my brother or my father, I am constantly thwarted by a sinister force I call “The Law of Whine”. Simply put, this Law states that “if you whine long enough, you will eventually come back and win.”

I have noticed this Law in effect as I play cribbage with my wife. I have noticed this Law in effect as I play cards with my dad and brother. I have noticed this Law in effect enough times to know that it is true.

My family will sit across the table and start saying things like, “this hand is garbage” or “I can’t get anything.” They will start to stare off into the distance, they will sulk, they will go get potato chips. They will remind you constantly that they would be beating you if they could just get a hand. This will go on for a good fifteen minutes.

Then suddenly they will get a good hand. “Finally, something to bid on!”, they will say. Or they will grow suspiciously quiet. They will start winning hands and the possibility of winning the game will become a reality. “After all that whining, and now things are going my way.“ They will realize how horrid their attitude was. They may start feeling guilty about it.

In the end they will win the game. They will continue to feel guilty about their whining all except for my brother. He is a firm believer in The Law of Whine. As a matter of fact, so is my dad. My wife, she might feel bad in the end, but she likes to win as well. She will walk away from the table and say she does not want to play again after such an awful game, but she will know that the Law took effect in her favor. She will use it again.

I on the other hand am above The Law of Whine. I do not need to lower myself to the depths of Poutingdom. I am a winner. I do not need good cards to stay mentally focused. I mean, I hardly ever win anyway. Maybe if I got some cards worth getting every once in a while I would have a chance to win. I need some potato chips. This is horrible.

Abstract Art

2010-06-28T22:14:00.000-07:00

There was a logger in Maine. One early Monday morning he had to make a run to the sawmill. He had a truck full of logs. Well, he was cruising down the back roads of Maine and he dozed off a little. His truck got onto the shoulder of the road which was soft from the rain the night before. The tires sunk into the mud and caused the truck to tip and scatter logs everywhere and the truck was a mangled mess of iron and steel.

If a normal person painted this scene then you could see a story. You could see the guy dangling out the window and see the logs jutting here and there. You could almost taste the mud and touch the grass and imagine how much money you could get from scrapping that poor fellow’s truck at the junk yard. That is, you could do this if someone painted an accurate panorama of the scene.

But suppose an abstract artist came around. He would look at the same sad scene. He would get up on a little hill to take it all in and be able to paint what he saw. He would proceed to paint a red line and a squiggle in the upper right corner of his canvas. He would then spit a huge yellow hocker in the middle of the canvas and then maybe shade it a little to the left. He would then take it to New York or Boston and bring in some big money at an auction for a painting titled “Rough Day In Maine”.

The buyers would ask him afterwards what the painting means and he would explain that the red line symbolized the trucker’s bloody face. The squiggle was an obvious tire track and the hocker shaded to the left was an obvious reference to a logging man asleep at the wheel. Upon hearing the explanation, the buyers would congratulate themselves on being so hip, and the artist would congratulate himself on being so deep and insightful.

My only objection to abstract art is that I could do it. My cat left some abstract art on our floor a couple months back and tried to tell me it was George Washington crossing the Delaware. It was amazing. Not that my cat spoke, but that George’s wig looked so real.

Bob Ross

2010-06-28T22:11:00.000-07:00

I have read about certain authors that produce one book every couple years. They research and study and labor and write at all hours of the night. I want to be the Bob Ross of writers. I would like to just whip out a book in about fifteen minutes. I could get an afro-wig and type away at the computer and mumble to myself and occasionally look over my shoulder and then type the last sentence. I would look at the camera and say “Well, there you have it…..a book about the Rocky Mountains, just like that….now, go sit down at your computer and type away friend….til next time.”

That would be the life.

I had an art teacher in high school who hated Bob Ross. I really have no idea why. He had his own television show and she was trying to teach high school kids about seeing the picture that was really there. Not what your eyes told you, but what was really there. And she did a great job of this. It ticked her off that Bob Ross did not paint like she told him too.

He would just dab a little here, dab a little there, and trees and mountains and storms and lakes would appear magically on his canvas. Pretty soon you would be looking at a place you would want to vacation at. Secretly, deep down, my art teacher just wanted to get away and get lost in a Bob Ross painting.

Looking back, if I had more guts and imagination back in high school, whenever I initialed my art work, B.H., I should have skewed the H. just a little to make it look like an R.

Where money is god?

2010-06-28T21:24:00.000-07:00

Here are some thoughts I had a while back. Just muddle through them and you will be ok.

Socialism is determined to uphold the dignity of men by not allowing men freedom to make their own decisions.

Socialism is a form of government where Money is god. You would think that a Capitalistic society is more likely to worship Money, and yet it is not so. In a capitalistic society, a man is free to make as much or as little money as he needs or would like. He is not a slave to it unless he chooses to be. In a Socialistic society, men are identified in terms of money. In fact, it declares that all men should be paid equal -which they are not. This sounds good in theory, and yet what it does is identifies a man with a monetary value. Socialism worships Money simply because it believes that a man’s life is determined by how much of it he has or should have or doesn’t have.

A free, Capitalistic society says that men have the right to choose how much money they earn and the type of lifestyle to pursue. Capitalism doesn’t determine a person’s worth based on their income, but rather on their mere existence. It doesn’t declare their dignity by giving them all the same paycheck. It declares their dignity by giving them all the same freedom.

I really don't have any more time to write on this now. I thought I would throw this out there and see if anyone is with me.

Wasting Time

2010-06-04T19:00:00.000-07:00

If you ever go to Yellowstone National Park, go to Lewis Lake. It sits just south of Yellowstone Lake and no one ever goes there. People eat lunch there on their way to see geysers or on their way out of the park to see the Tetons. Lewis lake just sits there like a gem and nobody cares.

The only people who rarely care are fisherman. They'll catch some trout in the icy waters of early summer, but as the water heats up the fish go deep and the fisherman disappear. No one wants to waste time there except for me.

If you saw Lewis Lake, would you waste time? Would you walk along the shore and skip some rocks? Would you breathe in deep and walk far enough to see Mt. Sheridan? Would you keep your eyes peeled for otters and bears and eagles? Would you wade out as far as you could before your legs started to buckle from sheer frozenness? Would you take a dip on a warm August night?

I do not know if you would. I do not know if you would have the guts. It takes courage to do anything for the sheer joy of it. Only kids live like that anymore. Not only do they inherit the Kingdom but they inherit Lewis Lake.

If you ever get out to Yellowstone and you are driving by Lewis Lake, I hope you stop. Waste some time.

The Wassons, Live and In The Dark

2010-05-19T18:32:00.000-07:00

Hey all, here is a song for you. I posted the words in an earlier post called "The Wassons". Hope you enjoy or at least think about the joy of being apart of the Wasson Clan.

The American Dream?

2010-04-25T18:02:00.001-07:00

I was just reading a report about the memorial service held for the 29 miners who died in the West Virginia mine explosion. It mentioned some of Pres. Obama's words and some of those words really got under my skin. He spoke about how these men went to work each day and came out of the mines all dirty and squinty-eyed (my paraphrase) and they did this to provide light all over the country. They did this to provide a house for their family, a car in the driveway, etc.......

None of these comments irk me, it was what he associated these things with. He said that these men were simply pursuing the American Dream.

We used to live close to Marion, Indiana and in Marion there is a store that sells garage door openers. Their motto is "The Finishing Touch on the American Dream."

Really. Really! Is the American Dream really a garage door opener? Is it even a house? Is it having a car. Has the American Dream really just come down to what you own or posess?

I thought the American Dream was freedom. I thought the American Dream was freedom for everyone. People of all colors and nationalities could live here (legally, of course) and be true to the principles of the constitution. People could live here and know that they mattered. People could live here and know that they had a chance at being free to work and play and live.

People could live here and be free from tyrants and tyranny. People could live here and be given the dignity of being a human and not just another cog in the machine of a government or business.

I had no idea the American Dream was what you owned. I always thought it was what you did with the life you were given. I thought the American Dream was freedom and the responsibility that comes with that.

I Could Die Like That

2010-03-25T18:15:00.000-07:00

If you ever head west out of Minnesota, be prepared for a drive. Endless fields of corn. Corn giving way to cattle and the cattle giving way to the Missouri River. The river turns to grass. The grass grows forever to the edge of a cliff and washes away into the Badlands. The Badlands eventually repent and return to grassy hills and hazy and in the distance loom the Black Hills of South Dakota.

This is a snapshot of a long drive. Whoever said a picture is worth a thousand words was onto something. But a long drive in an automobile is worth a thousand pictures.

I would rather die driving down some lonely road across Montana than at home. I would be scarfing down a Pepsi and start choking on it and drive into a field, through the fence that lines the road for miles and miles. I would be thrown from the car and as I lay there spread-eagled along the fence staring up at that big, blue Montana sky, I would tell God how good He is and what a beautiful sky he has made.

Grasshoppers would be flying all around me as I tried to move my arms and legs. The plague of locusts in scripture would come to my mind and I would repent of all my sins one last time. I would lay there in the brown grass thanking God for letting me be free.

The dust would accumulate on my lips and the sun would scorch me for days. I would die and rot and dry up and lay there for weeks. Bleached bones would be all they find of me. "Poor guy," someone would say, "must have been a horrible way to go."

But they would not know the whole story. They would not know that I layed there talking to God. They would not know that the grasshoppers were mesmorizing or that the sky was a deep blue that day. They would not know that it had been a pretty peaceful death.

They would see a tragedy where I had lived a romance. They would see pain where I had seen beauty. They would see suffering where I had entered heaven. And they would not understand.

They would take some pictures back to the station but the pictures could not tell that whole story. They never can. You just have to be there.

Houston, I Need a Lift-Off: Part Two

2010-02-09T19:22:00.000-08:00

Without getting too technical, I would like to expand on some previous thoughts about being in orbit around God. My brother Nate mentioned that some things in his response that I thought were worth expanding on.

Previously I had written about the desire to have the world revolve around me and how great that would be.......and horrible that would be for me and for everyone else. I wrote about how the world revolves around God and he does not get a big head about it, is quite happy with it. He made it to do that and he made us to orbit him as part of his creation. We are actually happiest when cooperating with this plan.

Nater mentioned in his response that some things remind him of just how pathetic his little orbit is: the Bible, the created world around him, beauty. I thought this was worth getting into a little.

Nate's thoughts were interesting to me first because he made me rethink a couple things I said in the post. I had mentioned how my orbit was pretty tiny compared to God's. I even mentioned that it was pretty pathetic and Nate agreed.

I need to clarify that really there are three different orbits. Number One, is my own self(the "old Man"). It is really a false orbit. A lie. Number two is the things entrusted to me, things that are in my orbit. Number three is God himself, whom I am orbitting around.

The orbit I spoke of in the previous post was basically my own self(the "old man" as it is in the Bible). Basically the lingering desire to try to keep God out of my life. The temptation to be king not just of my own little world, but the whole world. The idea that the world revolving around me is more fascinating than the world revolving around God. I believe this is basically that remnant of rebellion passed down to me from Adam. It is a lie. This part must be killed.

Now, let us look at Number two. It seems some things do revolve around me. My wife, my kids. My house and garage. My yard. My cat. My work with the church. My mortgage. My friendships. Not to say that these things would cease to exist if I died, but God has put things in my life that do in some way revolve around me or He counts on me to take care of. It is not a lot, but it is a lot for me. I am just one man. No doubt you would say, "Quite a Man".

It is false to say the world revolves around me, but it is true to say that there are only certain things that I can do and no one else can. I am not indespensable, but at the same time I am irreplaceable. And the real challenge in life is being a good king for the people around you.

So I say that I do have some things revolving around me and you do to. We are all given these people and places and things in our lives that we are entrusted with. What we do with them is up to us. Which is not always that great...that is a lot of responsibility. I have very little revolving around me and yet it is all I can handle.

Some of these things that revolve around me also point to our Third Orbit, that larger orbit that I am in around God. My wife's love. Elijah's laughter. Abby's trust. Micah's curiosity. The helicopters on our maple trees in the spring. The sun setting out at the church. Our youth group praying for each other. Our church worshipping together. These things which are a big part of my orbit, are also used by a Larger Object as a sort of gravitational pull out of Orbit Number One and into Orbit Number Three.

There are other things as well. The Holy Spirit, who knows me better than I know myself, is constantly working to pull me out of Orbit Number One. I do not think that there is any way I could ever express the deep sorrow, nor the deep gratitude for the things the Holy Spirit has to deal with in relation to me.

The Bible has always been not only a pointer to God, but a puller from God. The History, the stories, the Law, the prophets and the Gospel. All true and all accurate. It is ridiculed by a host of very intelligent men, but when all is said and done, it will prove them to be fools.

The church itself deserves some more attention. Meeting weekly with the same people to worship God and remind each other that He is the One we orbit around. The people who have accepted God's grace and are all works in progress, all struggling with the mighty pull of His Spirit.

The wind, the rain, snowstorms and ocean waves. A flower, a sunrise, the morning dew and a bounding deer. All these things pull me towards God. They all exhibit characteristics of God. You can see the artistry of God, the boundaries and limits he has set on his Creation. You see the fine lines and detail. You see the beauty and power. My being a part of this Creation is a joyous thing. All creation being redeemed and renewed is an even more joyous thing.

Many things point and pull me into the correct Orbit where I belong. What I continue to find is that when I am where I belong, orbitting around God, my own little kingdom has room to expand. When I try to leave my orbitting position around God, my own little kingdom can do nothing but shrink, shrink, shrink until there is no one in it but me. And I am learning that that is hell.

What Jack Learned that Day

2010-01-11T21:35:00.000-08:00

To all who happen to read this blog, I just want to say that I did not purposefully stop writing. I just forgot my password to get into this site............horrible, just horrible. I've been waiting for months to write and to not be able to get into this site...a travesty.

I am working on a sequel to the last post, but in the meantime, here are a few things I would like to make up.

I get a lot of joy out of writing odd things. There is just something about thinking something up out of the blue that is fun. I also enjoy knowing if it made you all laugh or not. I really enjoy the laughter part. What a great thing God has given us.

Gergen's Hill

Well, Jack went sledding the other day and forgot his long underwear. His mom always warned him about not wearing his long undies while sledding, but this particular day Jack just plain forgot.

He did not even think about it til about the tenth time down the hill. His jeans were all snow-encrusted and as he lay at the bottom of Gergen's Hill after narrowly missing a tree by opting for a government bailout (a local police man was sledding that day and unintentionally crashed into Jack as Jack approached the tree, saving Jack) he realized he forgot his long underwear.

He was a little embarassed. Here he was, a sophomore in high school. He just about died. A lone, solitary man had saved his life. And he had forgotten his long undies. His legs were getting stiff and his sled was laying there fifteen feet away...as Jack lay there on his face and looked at the sled, the sled gave Jack a look, a look that said "you'll never be a real sledder" and Jack broke down into tears.

No long underwear and a sled that ridiculed you. How bad can it get? thought Jack as he stumbled to his feet. He never saw the cop sliding down the hill from behind. The collision was what you would expect. Jack went down knowing that life as he had known it thirty seconds before was over.

Thirty seconds ago he had stood at the top of the hill. He had his whole life spread out before him. He looked out over the hill and saw people sledding here and there, laughing and yelling and hurrying up to the top to do it again. He saw a little boy sitting at the top scared to death to go down and the boy's father was whispering words of encouragement in his ear, "you got it champ, you can do it."

He saw that little boy and his father and he saw himself nine years earlier sitting at the top of Gergen's Hill for the first time. His mom had helped him into his long underwear then but when little Jack peered over the steep hill, what he really needed was to go take a leak in the woods, he was so scared.

But his father had been there. His father had leaned over and said "Jack, you can do it champ. Piece o' cake." And Jack believed him after about five minutes. With his dad's encouragement and a little courage, he had taken off down that hill like a bolt of lightning and was never the same again.

And then today happened. No long underwear, an errant ride salvaged by an unlucky fellow sledder and then to get blindsided by the savior himself. It just was not right. Jack's dad was not even around to help. He had gone to work that day.

Jack looked up to the top of the hill. That little kid was still way up there being chicken. That dad was still way up there whispering words of encouragement. Jack waved, letting them know he was alright. They did not appear to notice him at all. He waved again with both arms. They did not even acknowledge him.

Jack looked around. The police officer was picking himself up off the ground and smacking snow off his hat. He stumbled off into the direction of his car, sled in tow, mumbling words of apology. Jack felt like he was in a bad dream.

He began his way back up the hill. He needed to sit down and recover a bit. He trudged up the steep slope and sat down on a log at the top. He looked over at the little boy and his father. He noticed the kid had good taste. The little boy had the same type of mittens that Jack himself wore when he was a kid. That man, he had a nice beard just like Jack's father used to have....They looked his way and Jack saw himself.

He saw himself in the boy mostly. But he saw himself in the man. They were both him. One was who he had been and the other was who he was becoming. He felt like he was in the in-between. And he was. His life at the moment did not feel like the boy or the man, but instead like the wreck at the bottom of the hill.

It was at that point his dad came up from behind. "Hey champ, how's the sledding." Jack comically told his father about the near death experience he had just had. His dad laughed and asked how long that little boy had been sitting there. Jack told him it had been about ten minutes. Jack's father said, "that little boy was you years ago and years from now, you'll be that man." His dad had a thermos of hot chocolate. "Mom said you might need this....she found your long underwear in the dryer."

Houston, I Need a Lift-Off

2009-11-03T22:43:00.000-08:00

I was driving home today from work and was thinking about the liberating yet disappointing fact that the world does not revolve around me. And I thought about God and how the everything revolves around Him and not only that, but He knows that everything revolves around him. And not only that, but He knows that everything revolves around him and He likes that. And not only that, but He knows that everything revolves around him, He likes it that way, and He made us to revolve around him. And He is still good. Man, I would be a nut job.

God creates things to revolve around him. This idea terrifies me. I would not be as terrified of the idea if I believed God was evil. If God were evil, I would have no problem trying to usurp his power. Then I could be God.

But, I have the unfortunate problem of believing God to be good. It is unfortunate because things would be so much easier if He was not good. For instance, the whole “me wanting to be God” battle. But if God is good, then I know that I will never be God because I am not that good. And if I was that good, well, I would always be in perfect orbit and would not understand what being out of orbit meant.

But I sure do understand what being out of orbit means. Honestly, I understand it more than being in orbit. In fact, it is more “natural” for me to be out of orbit than in orbit. Call it what you want -human nature, sin, evil. I understand not revolving around God.

Which brings me back to being terrified. I am terrified of God. Not because He is evil but because He is good. I am terrified because I am not good. I am terrified not because God is ruthless, but because I can be ruthless. I am terrified not because God is cruel, but because I can be cruel. I am terrified not because God made the world to revolve around him, but because I think He screwed up and it should revolve around me.

Admittedly, my world has a tiny orbit. You could walk around it in a second. It is pathetic. But still I somehow hang on to the idea that things orbiting around me is more fascinating than me orbiting around God. Which is another reason I am terrified. I know that this idea is not true. I am hanging on to a lie like it is a lifeline and I am scared to let go. The only problem is that the lie is killing me.

Failure in the Fast Lane

2009-11-03T18:09:00.001-08:00

So I am writing a book. I am wondering whether this is a good idea or not. I have been at it for at least a couple weeks now and have a page. My brother told me that he read an article by a well-known author who spent his time writing books from 3-8 a.m. I told my brother that I am not an idiot.
Truth is, I am not in a hurry. Everybody is in a hurry. I am not. I went to a funeral today for a lady who died last week. She was 87 years old. She lived a good life. Loved her family, loved God, left a lasting legacy of love. Personally, I can not be in a hurry and love anyone.
I am introverted. I am slow. I am happy not talking and just being quiet. I like laughing. I hate small talk. I enjoy talking about things I enjoy or know a friend enjoys. I enjoy arguing and debating. If I am talking, I prefer joking and playing. I do not have much of a stomach for fashion and fads.
I can not live fast. I have tried and failed. I am doomed to slowdom. I love the slow lane. I prefer country roads. I enjoy walking, especially at night. I am boring. I am Ben. I am ok with that.

"Er...Uh....Lovely Rug"

2009-09-25T20:57:00.000-07:00

I am trying to think of some stuff to write. I appreciate all the encouragement. I think I have been a bit depressed lately and that leads me to not have anything to write about.

We had gotten back into the van. A group of us had hiked about a mile and a half up a trail in Glacier National Park to an overview of a lake. It was a stunning view. And then we had to leave.

As we were piling into the van our driver asked me what I thought of the hike and the lake. I told him that it was great. And then I asked our driver a question. I said, "Don't you just wish you could keep going on that trail forever, as far as you wanted and never had to care or worry about coming back?" I mean the beauty was just that good. And he said, "Yeah, well, not really. I mean, I have my job and family...reality". And I thought, "Yeah, true, that stinks".

I love my family. I love my job. But I have a longing for something much greater than either of those things. It is a longing that comes from time to time. It comes over me often when I am away from home. It hits me when I see something breathtakingly beautiful.

Whenever I think of the Lake Michigan shore line, I have this longing. Whenever I think of Yellowstone, I have this longing. Whenever I think of driving down a backwoods Kentucky road, I have this longing.

I know what the longing is. I want to stand on that shoreline forever. I want to stand in that mountain meadow forever. I want to drive down that backwoods road forever. If there is one thing I want in the whole world, it is to enjoy that beauty forever. To be a part of it.

That is what I really want. Not just to be there forever, but to belong there. Because when I go to those places now, I feel like I accidentally walked through the front door of someone else's house, thinking it was mine. "Oh, it's good to be......Oops, um...my bad...uh, lovely er...uh...rug." I feel that I am right where I ought to be and then come to find out I do not belong there.

I know that all will be made new. I want that so bad. Then I will belong. I can go down any trail, stand on any shore, walk through any mountain meadow and know that I do not have to leave.

In the meantime, I deal with reality here. But I am going to deal with it differently now. Because so much of what we call reality in our world is just simply sin. It is simply deadness. It is simply distraction. It is not important. I have gotten glimpses of a greater reality beyond our world and I am going to begin to tune my life to the music that is playing just beyond that pitch-black curtain and the stars.

It's Been Awhile

2009-09-05T18:01:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of posts recently. I have been busy. Having three kids is a bit time consuming and in the evening I have no desire to write in this blog. But, things will change and hopefully I will still have some type of audience.

I thank all of you who read this blog, which probably is just my brother now, possibly. I read a couple things on his blog the other day and thought to myself, "self, Nater is a great brother." His blog is www.jcconline.net/church/nates-blog/ . If you want deep thoughts and things that will make you think, read his blog. If you want pure, unadulterated entertainment, then read my blog.

I wrote a story in my last post which led me conclude that Nater is the only one who reads this blog anymore. I had envisioned a massive response from my reading audience who would request a sequel to "The Legend", maybe even a book. I was stunned when this did not occur. I therefore must take it upon myself to entertain the lone reader who clicks on my web address and leaves comments regularly. And Nater, as I told you before, it all just comes out of my head.

"The Legend II"

The Lost Years

He could not hardly remember it anymore. It all seemed so long ago, like a dream. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe he had not really beaten up two kids at that playground in Shankton. Maybe it was sheer, vain imagination.

He did not know that all the kids in Shankton simply knew him as "The Legend". How could he have known? He lived miles away on the other side of the state. He was in Shankton that day at the park by accident.

He had pulled off the interstate at exit 26 instead of exit 29 and by the time he realized his mistake, he heard his stomach growl, he had to take a leak and he needed to fill up his bike's gas tank. So he stopped at the Kwik-Stop, filled one tank, emptied another and grabbed some food. He saw a park down the road and across the street and decided to eat lunch there.

He finished eating. He went into the restroom one last time before he hopped back on the bike and well, you know the rest of the story. He came out, two bigger kids had started to terrorize the little kids, they saw him come around the corner and they laughed at him and he proceeded to beat the snot out of them.

Typical biker story.

Well, "The Legend", as they called him in Shankton, was a stud. He did not take any crap from anybody. Especially a couple punk kids from a punk town.

He was a man's man and he liked to ride around on his motorcycle at night without his shirt on just to prove his toughness. His chest would be covered with the illuminesent remains of lightening bugs, the juice of cicada's and other night time flyers. It was painful for even the toughest bikers, but for him it was like a lovely stroll through a meadow full of luscious wildflowers, waterfalls in the distance, holding hands with his woman. He lived for it.

Like I said, he was a stud. But like all studs, he got old. Not that his behavior got old and turned people off. No, he just got old. Man, he taught those kids a lesson in his thirties and now he was what? 75? He had been such a phenomenon and now look at him. He was getting all wrinkled. He was fading into the twilight, the sun was setting and he could not even kick start his bike. He had gone into weenie mode and got a push-start button bike. His life was practically over.

He began to look back at his life. The endless days on his bike, the macho things he had done, the remarkable confidence he had once had. He felt lost. In fact, he was pretty sure that his life, not just his life now, but his life in the past, had no meaning. He was in a daze for about five years . It was a tragic period in his life and one that took a miracle to shock him out of.

This is how it happened. He had gone down to the truckstop by the interstate for breakfast. He went there about once a year to get coffee and an omelet. Well this particular day in September was pretty chilly. In fact, he almost did not go out at all. But he was bored and sad and needed some fresh air and if the cold killed him, well, at least then he would not have to wander around in this mental fog he was in.

He sat down at a booth by a window that faced the interstate. He ordered his coffee and omelet and looked out the window at the passing semis. The door jingled as customers came in and out and the waitress brought him some coffee so perfectly scoulding and black. A middle aged man and two teenagers pushed into the booth behind him and changed his life that day.

Here he was. Trying to remember that day in Shankton. Trying to decide if he had made the whole thing up. He had just about made up his mind that he had dreamed the whole thing up when he heard a young man in the booth behind him say "Dad, you have got to tell Jack the story about 'The Legend'." The young man started chuckling and snorting. "Especially the toilet paper part."

Well, the dad agreed and started telling the boys all about that day long, long ago when this biker dude had come around a corner outside the restroom at the park in Shankton and saved the day for all the little kids of the town. He himself had been on the merry-go-round that day and was about to pee his pants as the town bullies, Timmy Shaw and Tommy Frane approached the ride.

The dad said he actually never saw the Biker until Timmy and Tommy stopped about a foot away from the merry-go-round. They suddenly stopped and started guffawing and pointing at something behind him and when he looked around, he saw the Biker with toilet paper on his boot coming quickly towards Timmy and Tommy.

"It was over before it started," said the Dad. "I was so happy. Those guys got a beatdown instead of giving us one. Those two guys were never the same again. The town punks, with a future full of petty lives and petty crimes, turned over a new leaf. They began to take care of stray cats, walked old ladies across busy intersections and even started tutoring kids after school. It was a miracle."

"The Legend" sat there in his booth, speechless. The fog he had been wondering through was being burned away by the reality of his past life. Shankton was hundreds of miles away and sitting a foot away from him in this smoky truckstop was a man he had saved from a childhood of beatdowns. Not only that, but the two kids he had creamed, learned their lesson and began to treat others with dignity and respect.

What an amazing thing. Should he turn around and introduce himself? His mind was racing. He was "The Legend"! He was a memory in the lives of a whole town! Should he say something? He wrestled with these thoughts for what seemed like an eternity and as he did, a peace came upon him that he had not had for years. The fog, the haze was almost completely burned away and as that last bit of fog vaporized and vanished, he lifted one hand and extended his index finger at the waitress behind the counter and said "Check, please."

The Legend

2009-06-30T19:31:00.000-07:00

How y'all feel out there? I would like to throw a / in there and a ? as well. I have no idea what that means.

Let me tell you a story about a boy named Timmy. Just a little note, this is not a kids story.

Once upon a time there was this kid named Timmy. He picked his nose and ate his boogers. He was disgusting.

He was best friends with this kid named Tommy. Tommy was a punk. Tommy picked fights, instead of his nose, and made other kids eat Timmy's boogers too. Tommy was pathetic.

Well, one evening Timmy and Tommy were walking down the street in their hometown of Shankton. It was a lovely summer eve and the leaves were as green as emeralds. Timmy and Tommy saw some younger kids playing on the merri-go-round at the park. They began to walk towards the ride.

Timmy was picking his nose and feeling pretty good about himself. Tommy was on a search and destroy mission. They were a formidable team. I guess you could say Timmy was on a search mission too...yeah, you could say that. Well, the kids on the merri-go-round saw the duo approaching and froze.

It is a sad thing to see fear in the faces of the underdogs. Man, they were pitiful. The merri-go-round slowly ground to a halt and the kids sat frozen and lifeless. Timmy and Tommy approached.

One small child girl started shouting hysterically, "Timmy, tell me you did not bale hay today!" She shouted it over and over again. It was pathetic. Timmy grinned a big, black, boogery grin. Indeed he had baled hay that afternoon. Timmy dug for black gold again. Tommy went to shut the little girl up.

Well, about that time, around the corner of the restroom came this big biker dude. He was dressed in full riding gear. Leather chaps, leather jacket, leather gloves with the fingers missing. He had a tattoo on his right cheek that said in size ten font, "Kiss my other cheeks". He was tough.

Well, he came around the corner and saw the little girl shouting hysterically. He saw the frozen and lifeless kids cowering beneath the shadows of booger-picking Timmy and fight-picking Tommy. He saw that some toilet paper had stuck to the bottom of his leather boot. And in that moment, he became a legend.

Timmy and Tommy never forgot that moment. In fact, they still remember it to this day. They say that it is the moment that changed their lives forever. They were on their way to a life of petty crimes and petty lives until that summer evening.

Timmy said that when he saw that biker come around the corner with toilet paper stuck to his shoe, he initially burst out laughing - a big, boogery laugh.

Tommy said that when he saw that biker come around the corner with toilet paper stuck to his shoe, he initially took off running - a smart, smart move.

Timmy and Tommy both say that the sight of a big, bad biker dude with toilet paper stuck to his boot was too much to handle emotionally. In fact, Tommy, after his initial instinct to run wore off, got to the slide which was about twenty feet away. He turned and looked at the Biker again and could not contain himself anymore. He fell over laughing at the base of the slide.

The Biker, needless to say, saw nothing funny about any of this. He walked over to a trembling, nervously laughing Timmy and lifted him off the ground, said some things about his mom and then shoved the toilet paper up Timmy's nose and said "Blow this". He abruptly dropped Timmy who fell instantly to the ground and woke up an hour later a changed kid.

The Biker then moved towards Tommy who was laying at the base of the slide. The Biker picked Tommy up off the ground by his shirt and beat the living daylights out of him. It was impressive. The Biker then proceeded to pick his own nose and made Tommy eat it. It was disgusting. To this day Tommy says that the booger tasted like leather.

Well, Timmy and Tommy are old, wizened men now and they sit around on their front porch in the evening drinking sweet tea. All the kids from the neighborhood come around just before the sun is setting, and they come to hear about The Legend.

They listen as Timmy's voice cracks while he describes the pain of the toilet paper being shoved up his nose. They listen carefully as Tommy's voice drops off while he recalls the immense beatdown he took and then his voice explodes into the night, determined that all the kids remember the leather booger.

And as the sun drops behind the western edge and the kids scatter here and there, wandering around til they find their way home, Timmy and Tommy's final admonition continues to echo in their heads. "Boys," they say, "When it comes to boogers and fights, you'd better pick em at the right time".

And none of the kids laugh at strangers either. Funny-looking or not.

Who We Are

2009-06-22T18:02:00.000-07:00

It is a bit of a mystery. Who we are.

Who are people? Who is the man who drives his scooter down our road and through the car wash parking lot? Who is the young man who sits out in the car wash parking lot and blares his stereo? Who is the woman who lugs her laundry into the laundromat?

They are not just names. They are not just faces. They are not just normal. They are themselves and who knows what that is? They may be a grandpa, a grandson, a mom -but who are they? Who in the world knows?

It is a lonely thought.

Who are you? Not just a name. Not just a face. Not just a weight. Not just a height. Not just a son. Not just a daughter. Not just a dad. Not just a mom. Not just a trucker. Not just a teacher. Not just a preacher. Who in the world are you?

It will always be a bit of a mystery.....til the end.

Everybody enjoys a good mystery book. It builds and builds and builds and then "BAM"! the mystery is solved. We men and women are our own little mystery books. In the end we get solved and are revealed to all by the Great Detective.

A Scary thing....... the Truth. A Happy thing...... the Truth.

The Wassons

2009-05-25T21:36:00.000-07:00

I am a lucky man. If I had half the guts I wish I had and a lesser propensity to cry like a baby I would have sang this song at Grandpa and Grandma's Sixtieth Wedding Anniversary. I want to share this with the Wasson clan and may have the guts to sing it at the campout, but seeing as I can not even sing it in the privacy of my own office or home without crying....I just do not know.

The Wassons

Let's sit awhile,
let's hear a tale,
a story of the past.
A memory now
from long ago.
Tell me now
I need to know.
How else will my roots ever grow?
In this old earth
they grasp.

This world it now
goes rushing by.
No time to sit
and hear a tale.
It's roots are withered
and will die.
But let's just linger
you and I......

Here on the porch,
or in the barn,
driving down a country road.
Don't go to fast,
just take it slow.

I see the wheat
a golden glow.
I see the corn
all in a row.
The winds that wave
this sea of beans.
Memories keep calling me.

And they say,
"The tears we shed,
the pain we bear,
a heart that grieves
is a heart that cares.
And God he knows
in heaven above,
that only sacrifice
is love."

Now Indiana calls to me
where I have half my family tree.
Grandpa's telling me a tale,
Grandma's chiming in as well.
Two voices for the price of one.
Two lovers who have given some,
of all themselves to me..

Let's sit awhile,
let's hear a tale,
a story of the past.

Crying Like a Baby

2009-05-01T19:33:00.000-07:00

Have you ever wondered if Jesus had colic as a baby? Don't you just wish he did? It would make me appreciate the whole birth story a little more. Can you imagine the wise men showing up at the house just as Joseph storms out of the door looking for a wall to punch or something to throw. Jesus is in there throwing a fit and Mary is praying for her sanity, praying that God would take this "little miracle" and shut his mouth like He did to the lions in the den with Daniel.

You think about this stuff when you have a newborn of your own. You think about this stuff when your last child had colic for three months. You think about this stuff when you are slap-happy. You think about this stuff while you are storming out the back door looking for someone or something to punch, looking for something or someone to throw........you think about Jesus.

My wife and I were in a conversation with another couple the other night and we got on the subject of babies with colic and my wife said, "I would not wish that on my worst enemy." And like I said the other night, "Man, I would". If there is anything I would wish on my worst enemy, it would be a baby with terrible colic. Or better yet twins. I would be praying, "Lord, please send 'so and so' a baby with terrible colic. I'm not asking for much.....please avenge me." It is that bad.

The worst thing about having a baby with colic is that it is your kid. You think terrible thoughts about your own flesh and blood. You think all kinds of terrible thoughts and none of them are really true. You think terrible things and then you realize that this is a baby, this is family, this is yours.........your responsibility............shoot. And hope you miss.

Luckily, I am a bad shot. I have been lobbying for a gun now for the past few years. I have been informing my wife for five years that it is in her best interest to get me a gun for Christmas. I need to work on my shot. I keep telling her that at some point in my lifetime, war is going to come to the Midwest and I need to able to hold my own. I am beginning to see her wisdom in postponing the purchase. Let the kids grow up a little and then they can get a running start. More of a challenge for me. You have to love a woman who spurs you on to greatness.

About the only real benefit of having a baby with colic is that you have a good excuse for your bad behavior. Feeling cranky, irritable, moody, depressed, sulky, pouty, angry, downright raging mad?........chalk it up to the baby. It is really about the only three months that you can almost get away with it. Milk it for all it is worth. No pun intended - for all our breastfeeding moms out there........

Well, if Jesus did have colic, I am certain that is why Joseph died an early death. Sometimes you just wish that the writers of the gospels would have either affirmed or denied that Jesus had colic as a baby. Details, details. Well, I have enjoyed the speculation. In all honesty, I doubt Jesus did have colic. The Bible is pretty clear that He was without sin and colic - if it is not a sin, it is pretty close........... real close.

Quiet Out West

2009-04-28T21:03:00.000-07:00

Here are the words to a song that was inspired by that trip I spoke of in my last post. The Teton's, Mt. Borah and the Beartooth Mountains are all awesome sights to see and worship God for.

Quiet Out West

It's quiet out west with the sage brush
and I'm running down these posts.
There's no one around for miles except you and me
and that man who just drove by.

The leaves that turn, they are turning
and the rest just stay the same.
The silence over the Tetons
is just blowing me away(into your love)

Chorus:
When I was a thousand miles from anyone I know
You were there when I was alone.
When I was a thousand miles from anyone I know
You were there when I was alone.

Mt. Borah you are taller than them all
and that makes you a little proud.
But to those of us down here
you all look the same.
Ain't it funny how pride works that way.

Bridge:
And that truck's kicking up dust up
on that dry and dusty road,
Across this valley so wide.
From here it looks like
he's just poking along.
But I swear he must be doing sixty-five,
He's doing sixty-five and I'm starin'.

Chorus

Them Beartooths they are sharper than a knife
and they'll cut right through your heart.
When day and night dance,
like lovers alone.
It would make us blush
if we pulled the curtains apart.

Chorus

The Silence

2009-04-28T20:41:00.000-07:00

It was a beautiful trip, an adventure. I really did not know what I was doing. I basically just wanted to see the West again before I had to start working a full time job. I was terribly excited about the whole thing and yet could not shake this guilty feeling that I was just wasting time.

I'd been driving for three days. Illinois to Minnesota. Across South Dakota to the Badlands. Then to southwestern South Dakota, over the Black Hills into Wyoming. Through Casper, Wyoming and off towards the Wind River range. A front was pushing through as I headed toward the Wind River Range out of Casper and the sky was overcast.

I was driving along and had mountains way off in the distance to the south and open prairie all around for miles. At one point I pulled over to the side of the road and got out of my car to take pictures. Stepping out of the car, there was a strong wind blowing across the prairie. Other than the wind, the utter silence was overwhelming.

The silence was deafening. It was louder than the noise. It was deeper than the noise. I'd liken it to a canvas. It was there before the paint. Is there in spite of the paint. Is still a canvas even when paint is thrown on it. The silence is deeper, stronger. Like the Mississippi. Noise is the boats.

Silence is not the absence of noise. It is the reality beyond noise. The silence is still present. Noise can neither break it, the lack of noise can not bring it. It is something to be reckoned with. And God is in the silence.

Killed By a Constellation

2009-04-15T20:00:00.000-07:00

Orion just clobbered somebody. I’m not kidding. I was standing out in my backyard and from his left hand a massive streak of white was tossed and landed just over the horizon. The far-off sound of sirens tickled my ears about five minutes later and I knew somebody got hit by that huge club. What a rotten thing to get killed by a Constellation.

The stars are an amazing thing. I bought a book about eight years ago and I read it probably once a year or so. The Peterson First Guide to Astronomy. It has pictures of stars, constellations and galaxies. It is pretty handy to have. All the long years of my life wondering where the Little Dipper was and Mr. Peterson draws up a map and makes me feel dumb. Oh, the Big Dipper is easy enough to see at night. But in Northeastern Ohio the stars are starting to fade into the streetlights of urbanization and the Little Dipper remained a mystery to me. Sure, I knew it was close to the Big Dipper. I did not know the North Star was the beginning of the handle. And which one was the North Star, Polaris, for that matter? Maybe I should have been in Boy Scouts.

I am a lucky man. I have great parents. They are the ones who first introduced me to wonder. They love a good show and know one when they see it and they have always seen it in the beauty God spoke into existence. For that I am truly grateful. It meant we camped instead of shacking up in a hotel. It meant we had campfires. It meant we got to see the stars.

Gobs of burning gas are enjoyed much more at a distance. I suppose if a person had a bad experience with a Mexican dish they may know even more intimately what I am talking about. Gases are good, when they are millions of miles away burning brightly with no need for a Tums. To think that the sun is a great, burning ball of gas is terrifying. The Earth is one unexpected explosion away from being annihilated by a "little farfignoogen" - in the words of Alfalfa.

You could probably become a pretty good poet by looking at the stars on a nightly basis. I think it is a fact. Look at all the classic Greek mythology. They saw all kinds of animals and creatures in the sky. Then they wrote up poems and stories. Orion is only kind of there. You have to imagine the rest of him. Stick figure Bears are a stretch, it just takes some imagination. But most people I know never acknowledge the stars. At least not for long. Maybe while walking to the house from the car.

I wish more people in our world would just look up. I wish more t.v. sets burned out and houses had retractable roofs. I think the noise of the shouting stars could reach more ears. But too many people live their lives with the “mute” button on. Poets are dying on a daily basis because they no longer heed the voice of a multitude of the heavenly host singing praise to their Creator.

Indiana has wide open skies. Well, at least the flat part of Indiana. I lived in a really flat part about six years ago, surrounded by fields. My best friend Junior is Canadian. Junior came to visit for a couple days and after an afternoon of hitting golf balls around the yard and across fields, we decided to cook a frozen pizza and eat it outside while we watched the sun go down. We got the plastic patio chairs into the yard next to the field and got our pizza out of the oven. We watched the sun set and the sky turn pink and purple. Then a light blue sky creeped from the East and dragged it’s azure cape behind it and we saw the first star.

You can’t stop wishing on that first star just because you graduated from college. We wished for whatever we wanted. We even yelled for joy at the star. And then we started counting stars as they appeared. Stars appear shy until you get to know them. They kind of peak through the unraveled seams of that azure cape and see who is watching and then they slowly reveal themselves in unmatched beauty. Don’t get me wrong. Stars are not self-conscious. They are just wondering if anyone came to the show. They would hate for the Producer to go on with the whole thing without an audience. But hey, “the show must go on,” He says, “audience or no audience. “

Junior and I were watching that night though and the show was terrific. We even kept track of all the stars we could see and the order they came out in. We would see a new star and yell out a number and after about twenty minutes we ran out of eyes. We couldn’t keep up with the roll call. I can’t imagine a better night than that night, when God called out the stars and left us in the dust.

The Rocky mountains are a great place to look at the stars. You just have to avoid the bears. It’s really no big deal when there are fifteen loud people all camping together out in the middle of nowhere. You just find a huge boulder big enough for seven or eight people to lay on. You all get your warmest clothes on or a sleeping bag and go look at the Milky Way. It’s pretty simple. We only lost one person to the bears that night we did it.

In college we lived about ten miles from a reservoir in Eastern Kentucky, Grayson Lake. It has cliffs and boulders and trees all around it. We used to go out to the lake and walk about a half mile into the woods and come out at a place called Walker’s Point.
It was a huge rock projection that stuck out over the lake. Perfect for jumping and diving and camping. A bunch of us guys from school would go camp out there every Spring and Fall. There would be six or seven of us in sleeping bags out on the rock watching the stars, talking about girls and bodily functions and that’s about it. We would look at the stars too. We slept all night on this huge rock and the guys on the ends just hoped they didn’t roll over while dreaming of getting married and end up doing a “Gainer in a Body Bag” over the twenty foot cliff. The stars were all that fell on those cool, damp nights.

Sometimes I wish God would just grab a straight-jacket and “strap me in and lace me up tight”. I wish He would set me out in the yard and make me look at what He has made. But I know He won’t do it. He is too humble for that. He just keeps churning out beauty every night and He gives me the freedom to acknowledge it or pass on it. I figure one of these days you’ll see an old man sitting in a rocker out in the middle of his yard after the sun has gone down and you’ll think, “the old man must have fallen asleep.” You’ll go over thinking to wake him up and you’ll get real close and your eyes will meet my old man, wide open eyes and you will know that sometime between me writing this article and me sitting there rocking in the chair, I stopped “passing” on the opportunity to acknowledge my Father’s handiwork.

I hope you go outside tonight. I hope you go to a place where you can look up and see the stars. Maybe if you do, you’ll see that club as it leaves Orion’s hand. Maybe you’ll have time to duck. Not like that guy the other night. Poor guy never saw it coming.

Swimming Lessons

2009-04-15T19:08:00.000-07:00

You know the problem with the Bible. The problem with the Bible is that it is true. What is written in it truly happened; it is a historical book. You know, if it was all made up, it would not be a big deal. O.k., maybe some good stories, but it would not really matter to your everyday life. The problem with scripture is that is an accurate story of what has happened in history. And since it is true, you have to deal with it.

But living in our pop culture is like swimming in a kiddy pool down at the park. You have got your floaties on, cell phone in one hand, Starbucks in the other and you are lying in about an inch of water and all the kids are looking at you funny. Our pop culture’s motto reads: “Shallow At Any Cost.” And the church can cater to this too.

Here is the deal. And here is the problem the church runs up against. You can not pour an ocean into a kiddy pool. It does not work. What I am suggesting is this; The pop culture of our day has very little room for the Gospel of Jesus. It is too shallow, too selfish, too materialistic, too distracted, to disillusioned.

But here is the truth. The Gospel of Jesus has plenty of room for shallow people like you and me.

I imagined that I had a dream once. Jesus walked up to me while I was swimming in the kiddy pool with my floaties on, my sweet Hawaian flower swim trunks, a little sunscreen on my nose. I say, “Hey Jesus, Check me out?” He says “Where is your snorkeling gear? I see that kiddy pool has a pretty, pastel-colored cement floor!” He laughs hysterically.

I interrupt, “Hilarious man, let’s cut the chit chat. You want to make fun of me personally, fine. But do not make fun of my gear.” He says, “Ok dude, sorry about the snorkeling joke. My laugh was almost as loud as your swim trunks.” He laughs hysterically again. I say, “Fine, let’s settle this like men. Mano y Mano. A race, a swimming race.”

He says, “Fine, only two conditions. First, I determine where the race takes place. Second, you can not wear your floaties.” “What are you talking about?” I yell, “Without my floaties I might die! And besides, why not race in the kiddy pool?”

He says, “I can not fit in the kiddy pool.”
I say, “Dude, we are about the same size.”
He says, “I am much bigger than you think.”
I say, “Have you been working out?”
He says, “Even the Oceans could not contain me.”
I say, “You are getting weird now.”
He says, “If the whole universe was one giant swimming pool, it could not contain me.”
I say, “Hey man, I was just kidding earlier, you can make fun of me all you want.”
And he says this and I will never forget it the rest of my life, “Ben, you can not use floaties in the kiddy pool.” And then he faded away and was gone.

That’s when I looked to my left and on the sign, the big sign that said “Rules”, I saw the seventh rule: “No flotation devices in the kiddy pool.” Then I woke up in a cold sweat.

Jesus and his Gospel are so big, so marvelously massive and good, so grand and true. It is deeper and wider and stronger and purer. It tells an older story. It tells a true story. It takes us out of our own selfishness and petty lives and entwines us in a love story, where we are not the point of it, yet we are part of it. We are not the heroes, but the gratefully rescued. A story where we finally realize we are not the star.

Despite a kiddy pool culture that glorifies people who glorify themselves, we run up against a powerful, massive stream, a deep current that weaves it’s way around continents, crashes against coastlines and teems with life. We run up against wind and waves, depths uncharted and unsought. We run up against reality and the Word of God-this Person Jesus, whom we can not get around.

I think I have figured out the floatie thing. At least I think I know what Jesus meant when he said, “No floaties in the kiddy pool.” You can not take bits and pieces of the gospel, of the good news about the Kingdom of God, and blow them up and stick them on your arms and go lounge around in the Kiddy Pool.

The good news about Jesus is that he turns kiddy pool clientele like many of us into doggy-paddlers in the shallow end of the real pool. After a couple years of this we graduate into the deep-end and the diving board where our main goal is to soak the life guard with massive cannon balls. As we grow stronger he takes us to the beach and enjoys watching us get pummeled by a few waves as we learn to body surf. And as we learn and grow into his image, we become true, strong swimmers-learning to swim in the depths and the widths of the love of God.

The Wonder of It All

2009-04-09T19:52:00.000-07:00

It was a dark, rainy evening. I returned home from the store, put some hams in the deep freeze and grabbed the newly bought strawberry ice cream. It was not just your typical cheap ice cream like Edy's. It was "Family Pak" ice cream. A household name.

I ripped off the tab, opened the lid and grabbed a spoon. I looked down at the ice cream and stood perplexed. There was a hole in the ice cream. Not just any hole, a big hole. I was momentarily confused and disappointed. My first thought was, "Hey, I got ripped off!". But then the magnitude of what I was seeing finally sunk in. I realized the rarity of my find. An ice cave. Right there in my ice cream. A Strawberry Ice Cream Cave.

It started in the front of the box, went down at an angle and then seemingly veered toward the back of the box. The sides were rounded and smooth, like a Utah Canyon. It was beautiful. I decided to explore further.

I really had no option. I wondered how deep the ice cave was. I dug in with my spoon and began eating. I followed the cave down, down as it wound into the deep recesses of the box. It did head toward the back of the box as I had previously guessed. But not all the way to the back. Before long I hit bedrock.

The cave came to an end. It ran out of room. What a glorious cave! Simple, yet eloquent. Tasty, yet affordable. After I delved into the cave deeper and deeper, I had another profound reflection. The ice cave no longer was much of a cave. It actually looked like a quarry of some kind. A small quarry.

I shaved off the sides and uncovered more bedrock at the bottom. I enlarged and widened the hole. Small roads appeared zigging and zagging their way to the top of the quarry and small dump trucks began winding their way out of the quarry, dumping loads of ice cream onto my spoon. I could not resist. The masculine power of it all surged through me. The quarry grew and grew into a massive crater.

At this point, I decided to stop enlarging the quarry any further. I realized I would look pretty dumb if my wife walked in and saw how much ice cream I had eaten. She would never have believed me if I had told her about the ice cave. "But honey, I'm telling you the truth. Half the hole was already there. I just ate around it." That would not have made the grade. I would hear about that for a long time...."Hey Ben, that is an awfully big bowl of ice cream....find another ice cave?" I mean, the razzing would be endless.

The Sacrificial Lamb

2009-04-07T22:01:00.000-07:00

Hey Everybody! This first piece is going to get slaughtered. Wow. I did a search on Google with the word "Clogging" and now I find myself typing away on this computer at all hours of the night wondering what in the world this has to do with that dance. Maybe you have made a similar mistake............

It is a great honor to share my thoughts and ideas with you in such a public manner. To tell you the truth, I am scared to death. I have no problem using all the wit and humor I can muster while I talk trash in fantasy football, but to write in such an open and honest way about things that might matter is another thing.

I really hope that you enjoy what I write and if you do not, well then, go read my brother's blog. www.jcconline.net/church/nates-blog/ It is outstanding.

To be quite frank, I am really fortunate when I did that Google search on "Clogging" that I ended up here. In the spirit of Good Friday and Easter, it could have sent me to "Flogging". I may never have recovered.

Speaking of a recovery, I made up the whole thing about doing a Google search on "Clogging". I can not cut a rug. I guess if you were clogging, it would be "stomp a rug" or "kick the tar out of a rug". Hey all you Cloggers! Stomp A Rug! Yeehaw!

Well, all good things must come to an end and this lamb is cut up and on the burning altar. May the Lord in his infinite wisdom find something pleasing in it's aroma, something.....anything.