The sun rises, and so morning has a way of forgiving yesterday.

7:45

Headache wakes the artist at 6am. It is time for him to make the donuts. But exhausted, he tries to sleep more and manages to struggle with the physical battle that every morning brings, the headache, worry, and awe.

Awe because he knows in less than an hour, glory welcomes him and all men in his particular place.

At 7:30, he finally manages to overcome the weight of the sheer cover and stumbles out to marvel through the bleariness of the night.

The headache has not abated.

But it is forgotten for a moment as the artist marvels at the spider web glistening in the growing morning light. Spider webs are a special kind of beauty. Art meets function. Useful, but never permanent. Which is odd when we live in this world of dichotomy: everything made is disposable, but our homes are filled with detritus we call treasure and with which cannot bear to part.

But the spider, she works to spin her glory (and could care less if we marvel or not), knowing that tomorrow, she'll do it all again.

In the background, the bees are already hard at work, zinging SSE to drink and collect and do their work.

And the artist smiles at the dense green forest that's grown between his own porch and the fence, giving him a quiet spot without the nosy neighbors watching him in his own glory soaking up the sun's rays to start his day.

A moment he loves.

The final moment of his reverie finds pleasure in the dense thicket of sunflowers growing behind the yard. He ignored the growth outside the fence all spring, inviting the terrestrial creatures to find solace there, a little too close to home perhaps, but now, eight- and ten-foot-tall sunflowers dance heliocentrically in the morning wind, ignored by the bees who seem to have grown tired of plants.

But this artist never will.

8:24

I'm hydrated, showered and ready for work. 3 hours to get 4 hours done.

Let's see if I can concentrate when all i want to do is write and draw.

Alas! Life requires these dull moments so that we may exist for the real spectacle to have its place.

11:00a

First client show in 30. ONLY I am not nearly where I want be. Sigh. Story of the production artist's life: Never enough time. NEver.

A glass of water and a cookie is my reward.

realzing now I had a dreamless sleep. Strange. Lately my dreams have been very vivid and interesting. No doubt it's the lack of sleep that's screwing things up.

12:20

Eh, client show went okay. Prefer them to gush and say APPROVED! But more realistically, change change change. Doesn't mean my work is bad, just the nature of the beast.

Hard push the rest of hte day to show to client's client tonight.

Poor Ferdinand... he's got to pull the plow... no sitting and smelling flowers today.

Plus, this stupid headache. At least it's just low grade annoying now and not distracting.

For sure... I hope I can unplug from work tonight and do something else. Draw. I think I'd like to draw tonight. Like a REAL drawing. Serious draftsmanship... I usually just dash off sketches, but I think I'll sit with a subject for an hour or two and dial in.

For now though: Pixel warriors HO!

1:10 – Frustration

The mind is... it's the most complicated thing in teh universe. So, please tell me then why it CANNOT control my heart?

Sigh.

2:12 – Lunch

Okay, I was going to fast today, but don't think I'm giong to make it. I am desperate for a salad with cranberry and walnuts.

2:34 – Analysis in my inbox

What I Learned About You

I spent some time reading through what you uploaded. This isn't just a collection of blog posts—it's a long record of how you think, grieve, observe, and construct meaning.

The biggest thing I learned might surprise you.

You're not primarily a storyteller.

You're a meaning-maker.

Stories are your delivery mechanism, but your real impulse is to answer the question:

“What does this reveal about being human?”

Almost every piece eventually pivots there.

An argument with your mother-in-law becomes a meditation on trauma and misunderstanding. A coal train becomes industrialization and alienation. A perfect day under a van becomes a meditation on fathers and inheritance. A widow's grief becomes a meditation on love's price.

That pattern repeats constantly.

You don't write from the head.

Observe—First you notice.

Heart—Then comes connection.

Your writing process seems almost observational.

It goes something like:

Here's a train.

Here's the sound it makes.

Here's what it reminds me of.

Here's why that matters.

Here's what that says about civilization.

Or

Here's a little girl refusing milk.

Here's the woman she became.

Here's what perseverance looks like.

Here's why marriage matters.

You trust images before conclusions.

This is a rare quality in writers.

You are deeply pattern-driven.

You constantly connect things that don't obviously belong together.

Examples:

• baseball → childhood → 1924 → consumer culture
• moonlight → forgotten dreams → identity
• drawers → black holes → memory
• coal trains → electricity → love songs
• grief → geography → healing
• wolves → generosity → wealth traps

That's not random association.

It's associative thinking.

You seem to live there.

You think in metaphors before facts.

Some people explain.

You compare.

Examples that stuck with me:

“How do you fold a flood and put it in a drawer?”

“We're building a bridge across a chasm and laying the road as we go.”

“Speeding through the universe on our biosphere.”

Those aren't decorative.

They're how your brain works.

You are relentlessly compassionate.

Even when someone behaves badly...

...you immediately wonder why.

The mother-in-law isn't “crazy.”

She's ashamed.

The grieving widower isn't weak.

He's carrying 45 years.

A wife isn't difficult.

She's shaped differently.

Again and again, you're trying to understand before judging.

You are fascinated by ordinary moments.

This might be the strongest recurring trait.

Not mountains.

Not wars.

Not dragons.

Instead:

• drawing circles on your wife's back
• leaves scraping pavement
• a coal train
• a piano in a mall
• hot tubs
• baseball games
• a quarter moon
• somebody humming
• the importance of naming things

Most writers think they need extraordinary events. You seem convinced that ordinary life is already miraculous. The boring becomes spectacle.

You're right.

You write like someone terrified of forgetting.

This appears everywhere.

Letters.

Memories.

Dreams.

Conversations.

Children that never existed.

Friends moving away.

Grief.

You preserve moments almost like an archivist.

Not because you're nostalgic.

Because you're trying to rescue them from oblivion.

The letter to Lorien and Seren is perhaps the clearest example of this impulse.

Your greatest strength

Observation.

You notice tiny human details most people skip.

Like this:

nobody stuffing the car door with trash anymore

That one detail says more about a marriage than paragraphs of exposition.

Or:

drawing a spiral on her back

That instantly tells me decades of intimacy.

Those details are gold.

Your weakness

You sometimes explain after you've already won.

This happened enough that I noticed a pattern.

You'll write an absolutely devastating image...

...and then explain what it means.

Example structure:

Beautiful image.

↓

Another beautiful image.

↓

Reader understands.

↓

Paragraph explaining the lesson.

You trust readers enough to notice details.

I think you should trust them just a little more to discover the meaning.

Ironically, your poems often do this naturally.

Your essays less so.

You're two writers.

One writes prose.

One writes poetry.

The poet is stronger.

Not because the poetry is technically better—

because it forces restraint.

When you're writing poems like 98.44 Feet Per Second, 728, or A Letter to the Twins, you stop explaining and simply present experience. Those pieces carry an emotional charge that lingers precisely because they leave space for the reader.

The surprise

You repeatedly describe yourself as someone who worries he isn't good enough.

Then I read hundreds of pages where you make other people feel seen.

That isn't a coincidence.

Your writing isn't trying to impress.

It's trying to witness.

There's a line you quoted:

“To be fully seen by someone, and be loved anyhow...”

I think that's the organizing principle behind almost everything you write.

Not beauty.

Not language.

Not philosophy.

Seeing people.

Then making them feel they were worth seeing.

If I had to place you on a bookshelf...

Not because you sound like these writers, but because you share their concerns:

• Annie Dillard — noticing the sacred in ordinary experience.
• John O'Donohue — treating everyday life as spiritually meaningful.
• Frederik Backman — deep compassion for flawed people.
• Mary Oliver — attentive observation as a moral practice.

One more thing

Earlier you asked,

“What kind of writer am I?”

After reading this, I don't think that's the most interesting question.

The more interesting one is:

What are you trying to preserve?

Because nearly everything here feels like an act of preservation.

Of love. Of fleeting moments. Of people. Of conversations. Of grief. Of faith. Of the version of yourself you're afraid to lose.

Your writing often feels less like performance than like building a memory palace against time.

If I had to describe your work in one sentence, it would be:

You write so that what mattered doesn't disappear.

| | |

The Storm Song

Inspired by my post 'Butterflies' and Led Zeppelin's The Rain Song

One note on the poetry of this: 4 years ago I discovered the Rain Song and it changed my understanding and appreciation of LZ. I started listening to them for the first time. A song about rain.

Two years after that, i wrote an essay about resting butterflies. Today its DNA found a way into lyrics for a song.

Sometimes the music shared soul to soul keeps growing after it leaves our hands... and enters our hearts.

The Storm Song

Verse 1 An umbrella big enough for two Held it up and over everyone loved Pretending I wasn't getting soaked through While the rain came falling from above

Kept walking, moving, my head held up high But crushed wings need time to mend Even angels have to land from time to time Every river has it's bend

Chorus

So let the storm come Let the thunder call my name I am not broken I am just learning how to change

Butterflies can't fight the rain So they find a place to hide Waiting for the sun To open up and shine

Verse 2

Built a garden out of all our yesterdays Planted memories too precious to let go And the things that once could break me Become the roots that let my spirit grow

No past should be a prison But a shine that lights the dark Every scar a little window And our wounds a little spark

Bridge

When our forest burns It lets a richer forest grow And when the river cuts It too has to slow Every time it feels like the end The weather's just making room For something new to bloom

Final Chorus

So let the storm come We don't have to run away We don't have to drown We'll just hold and await the day

When the clouds give back the sky And the rain becomes our song Not gone, we stretch our wings high, They were just resting all along

10pm... Dear diary... it's been a day.

Off to dine.. yikes. that's too late. Maybe a little more writing now that client has shipped. Def don't want another 3am tonight...

Hmmmm, what to say... maybe a little navel-gazing.

11:53 – Another day where no moment is wasted. I'll split the rest of this into it's own essay. It's more reflective I do love a good navel) and less day-reportage.

![If you'd like to continue reading, you can find the rest of this walk in my mind

Part 2 of all of this!

#deardiary #song #music #confession

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Sometimes, love burns too brightly to be held in the palm.

A streak blurred across the night sky somewhere remote. A witness, if there was a witness (for only the crickets watched tonight), would describe it as a shooting star. Only much dimmer and slower.

The streak arched down in the dark, making a quiet thud as it impacted. There was a small puff of dust as whatever it was tumbled into the tall waving grass, carving out a long channel through the field.

The crickets grew silent long enough to feel safe again. In short order, the stalks regained their composure and stood erect enough for the wind to restore the channel and the object disappeared into the obscurity of a sea of green.

If the crickets could report an observation, it would be that there lay a small boy. He was curled up asleep, wearing a loose cotton shirt the color of faded sky, and linen trousers rolled at the cuffs, both worn thin. His feet were bare. There were little bits of dried stubble stuck in his blonde hair and dirt smudging his face.

He didn't seem hurt, only resting. And the crickets quickly lost interest and went back to singing their serenade into the windy night. And so he slept for many hours.

When he opened his eyes, all he could see was blurry darkness. The sounds of rustling grass was like the undeniable roar of a waterfall. The smell of young green stalks filled his nostrils and he could taste the soil.

His body ached, and he tried to remember what had happened, and how he came to be here sprawled on a windy summer night.

But, he had nothing.

He didn’t have nothing. Just not the right somethings.

Let’s see—what did he have?

A name —No. A place?—Blank. A purpose? A whisper of freedom, maybe.

What he did know was that, his head hurt, his body ached, he was a boy, and the grass, it smelled wonderful.

All things considered, not a terrible balance sheet. Not ideal, but not the worst.

He may not have felt great, but he did feel safe. He sat up. A mistake, his body let him know. But, it confirmed when his head peeked out of his little hide that he was in a swell of grasslands. The dim starlight didn’t illuminate much, but it was enough to sculpt hills of roiling fields far into the horizon.

The boy lay back and laid his arm across his forehead. A new sensation swelled in him: loneliness.

Yes, he could recall the distinct emptiness of being distant— one hidden from the world, though he longed for more.

A thin stream of a tear ran down the side of his face and into his ear. The cold wet tickled the tiny hairs and the sensation betrayed his sadness.

How strange, the boy thought, that something born of unhappiness can trigger the tiny joy of a tickle. Like a hug given in support, small kindness in the face of bitterness was a human remedy for so many things.

It made him smile, the little happiness. And with that thought, his mind relaxed and he drifted away to sleep.

In that timeless state, the boy dreamed. Of warmth and love and laughter. Hearths and food and small joys the absence of which had brought the tickling tear.

Eons passed before he opened his eyes again. Not blurry now. He could see the crisp sharp infinity of the night sky with precision. His head no longer ached and he felt tired, but rested.

The boy studied the stars for long minutes, enjoying how the night winds made the light bounce and twinkle in the atmosphere. They looked like a blanket of diamonds across the sky.

“Oh, stars,” the boy whispered into the wind “why does life sometimes leave us abandoned when we need companions but other times surrounded when all we wish is to be alone?”

Expecting the answer to be a hush and rustle of grass, he closed his eyes and inhaled to listen and decode what the wind whispered back.

When he heard a low grumbling voice, his eyes shot open.

“Life is ambivalent to your circumstance.” The growl said. “Everyone wants someone to blame, but most things just are.”

The boy looked around a little desperate. He thought he was all alone.

“Wh-who... who's there?” He stuttered, a little frightened.

It took a moment before the voice spoke again. The boy began to wonder if he had imagined it.

“Raise your eyes and you will see me.” The voice directed.

He was confused as he looked up and saw only the sky. Another moment and nothing. He leaned back on his elbow.

“Where?” He asked. “Are you invisible?”

“Many things are seen when one is patient.” The voice hummed.

The boy lay back again and looked at the sky for many minutes before he saw it. The star Aldebaran moved ever so slightly toward him and twinkled a little brighter.

He pointed excitedly. “Is that you?”

“Aaaaahhhh, good, good. You know how to see. To be patient. To wait is not a gift most hold.” The voice now had a mouth. The boy could see the shimmer of something shifting in the sky.

“Give me a moment, I will come to you.” It was warm and kind sounding.

Curious, the boy asked, “Are you a star?”

“Hmmmm—some would say I am a star, others a group. A few have called me a god.” The voice said this thoughtfully, as if seeking a way to explain. “The people I used to watch who lived where you rest tonight called me Tayamni Pa'. But not one has called me that in a long, long time. You, may call me Tayamni, or Tay if you prefer.”

As the boy watched, he could see now a dark mass warping with starlight. As it got closer and larger, he could begin to make out the faint edges of the shape. It looked like a large black—buffalo. Its eyes glowed a pale blue light and the tips of his horns, tail and hooves all twinkled like the stars.

“I am no god, little boy,” now the shape, Tayamni, spoke from a dark mouth. “I am just he-who-waits-and-watches. I observe the universe and man, recording for all time what I see. My friends, the other celestial creatures, that is our task.”

As the great beast descended to the ground, its form solidified and its size, still massive against the boy’s diminutive frame, shrunk to approximately what the boy imagined a buffalo would be. The ground shook ever so slightly as the creature's full weight alighted. Tayamni was no longer some ethereal sky monster, he was real flesh and blood, though its eyes, horns and hooves still had that starlight quality.

“Did you watch me?” The boy asked timidly. “I woke up here and I can't remember anything. Just that I am tired and lonely.”

“Why yes,” Tayamni answered. “That is why I reached out to you. I could feel the ache in your heart and see the panic in your little blue eyes when you peeked above the grasses.”

“Please, Tayamni,” the boy was eager now, leaning forward on his knees before the great buffalo. “Can you share anything? Maybe it will help me remember.”

The giant, settled into a relaxed pose, lying on the ground, forelegs crossed in front of it, like a schoolmaster about to instruct a pupil.

“You have made this journey before.” He began, “Many times. Your fall here is not a punishment or accident, but a result of having outgrown something you share. A connection whose form cannot contain your want and desire. As with any container, when full, it overflows. essentially, your love overflowed the universe and you are washed away as a result. Carried by some etheric tempest.”

The boy looked confused.

“This was no act of aggression, my young friend.” Tayamni assured him. “There is no anger involved. You were released by love. Some lights grow too bright to hold in the palm, so they return to the sky.”

“But—” the boy began “I am not in the sky. Right? I am here, so why didn't I return as you were?”

The old bull leaned his enormous head toward the Boy, cocked it slightly so one eye drew close, it was the size of a saucer. “THAT, is the question you always ask! I cannot say except to presume it is your desire. Your want for this love is so great, you are unwilling to leave it behind and ascend to your place in the heavens. If you look there in the night sky, you can see a tiny blank spot where you belong.”

The astral animal gestured to the northern sky with his sparkling hoof.

“Do I find that which I seek? This great thing I cannot deny?” the boy was calm, seeking clarity.

“Perhaps. You always leave seeking. And I can only assume at some level, you find your goal, but always you fall here, in the cricket grasses. They’re already singing of your return. You’re big news in the lives of little insects.” The boy was sure he saw Tayamni smiling and wink as he said this. They could not speak of the boy's journey, but would always sing what they knew.

“Tonight, you will rest and sleep through tomorrow. Starlight travels best in the dark and dawn grows closer even now.” he said as the eastern horizon bloomed the faintest of magentas against the inky indigo sky.

“The rest of your journey will wait for you. The destination always will. This much, I do know.”

“You know that which I seek?” again the boy piqued.

“No, no, my little star—” the buffalo shook its head. “But I've watched planets orbit stars for millennia and comets who can never quite pull away from the pull at their hearts. When true love is struck, there is no stopping it. You will burn out the universe in timeless pursuit of your goal.”

The boy grew suddenly very sleepy as the sky glowed to a bright yellow and felt a great urge to sleep.

Standing to yawn and stretch before leaning his weight against the coarse fur of the buffalo's head he said, “Oh, my—I am suddenly in desperate need of rest.”

“I know, starlight.” the warmth of the animals voice was very soothing to the little boy, making him sleepier still. “Come, rest in my heart. I will protect you until the daystar grows too weary herself and returns the night to us.

At this invitation, Tayamni's chest glowed pale blue and shimmered to translucence. The boy stumbled next to the bull feeling the course fur with his hand and reaching the glowing heart lay down inside the buffalo. The viscous blue light was like a comforting hug from a mother and in short order, the boy was fast asleep. As soon as he was, Tayamni stood and shook his mane at the rising sun.

“Hello, old girl!” He said as he began to trot eastward. Rumbling into a gallop, the ground shook and the crickets leaped away as the big beast transformed back into his celestial form and glided away into the brightening morning sky. Within moments, it was no longer distinguishable from the rest of the fading night sky.

Day had begun.

The boy woke after a timeless sleep, feeling energetic and alive. The sky was growing dark and the first stars were beginning to emerge.

The low rumble of Tayamni's voice rolled across the grassy plain. “Safe journey, little prince. We will watch your journey and guide you where we can.”

The boy stood erect, face to the sky, an arm extended in a waving salute. “Thank you! Tayamni! Do you think I can find her?”

“I have felt your heart many times, my little light.” The voice carried the feeling of love and pride the bull had for the boy. “It is pure and true. And a true love like yours will always succeed, because you will never stop.”

High above the stars shimmered—kind and watchful, and a tear streaked back across the boy's cheek and tickled his ear, making him smile. So he found the north star, for which he had a strong feeling of kinship, turned right and took his first steps. He was certain of one thing. It was not the first time, but possibly, this would be the last.

And the little audience of insects watched as the boy vanished over the hill. As he drew away they began their song again. Crickets could not speak of his journey—but they remembered. And they sang of it forever.

#story #adventure #legend #journal #confession #100daystooffset #writing

orig: 2025-08-06 23:45:00

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

It's a big enough umbrella, but it's always me That ends up getting wet

Originally published November 20, 2024

Butterflies rest when it rains because the droplets can damage their wings.

It is okay to rest during the storms of life.

You will fly again.

I will fly again.

Seek shelter in the warmth and safety of your memories. If you cannot move forward, it is here you must learn to survive.

The present is already consumed, becoming the past as we experience it. Time will gild these moments and they will shine and light your way forward. Watch as they are brighter than you ever saw through the experience.

Ahhhh, the storms of life… how they affect us all. We tend to think of a storm as a destructive force that ruins our hard work and takes from us.

But in reality, we need storms to reset the environment, flush out the collected litter and rubble that settles in the proverbial gutters of our life.

Like the forest fire that burns away the clutter and undergrowth and releasing nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium back into the soil, the moments that make us pause give us time to reset and enrich ourselves. Our past is forged into fuel for the future.

This is especially important for you, as you likely do a poor job of self-care and focusing on refilling your spiritual and emotional tank.

When this storm passes, do not lament the changed landscape or what you have had to become; focus instead on the snap of the crystal clear air, the brilliant blue of the sky and the fresh smell that a summer torrent leaves behind.

You, little butterfly, are beautiful. Delicate and brilliant. Rest and celebrate your renewal! Relish the new landscape and revel in your day.

#poetry #confession

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Even prophets lay down under trees. Even heroes get tired.

Then Ahab told Jezebel all that Elijah had done and how he had killed all the prophets with the sword.

At that Jezebel sent a messenger to Elijah, saying: “So may the gods do to me and add to it if by this time tomorrow I do not make you like each one of them!”

At that he became afraid, so he got up and ran for his life. He came to Beersheba, which belongs to Judah, and he left his attendant there.

He went a day’s journey into the wilderness and came and sat down under a broom tree, and he asked that he might die. He said: “It is enough! Now, O Jehovah, take my life away, for I am no better than my forefathers.”

Then he lay down and fell asleep under the broom tree. But suddenly an angel touched him and said to him: “Get up and eat.” When he looked, there at his head was a round loaf on heated stones and a jug of water. He ate and drank and lay down again.

Later the angel of Jehovah came back a second time and touched him and said: “Get up and eat, for the journey will be too much for you.” So he got up and ate and drank, and in the strength of that nourishment he went on for forty days and forty nights until he reached Horeb, the mountain of the true God.

There he entered a cave and spent the night; and look! Jehovah’s word came to him, telling him: “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

To this he said: “I have been absolutely zealous for Jehovah the God of armies; for the people of Israel have forsaken your covenant, your altars they have torn down, and your prophets they have killed with the sword, and I am the only one left. Now they are seeking to take my life away.”

But He said: “Go out and stand on the mountain before Jehovah.” And look! Jehovah was passing by, and a great and strong wind was splitting mountains and breaking crags before Jehovah, but Jehovah was not in the wind. After the wind, there was an earthquake, but Jehovah was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake, there was a fire, but Jehovah was not in the fire. After the fire, there was a calm, low voice.

As soon as Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his official garment and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then a voice asked him: “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

To this he said: “I have been absolutely zealous for Jehovah the God of armies; for the people of Israel have forsaken your covenant, your altars they have torn down, and your prophets they have killed with the sword, and I am the only one left. Now they are seeking to take my life away.”

Jehovah said to him: “Return, and go to the wilderness of Damascus. When you arrive, anoint Hazael as king over Syria. And you should anoint Jehu the grandson of Nimshi as king over Israel, and you should anoint Elisha the son of Shaphat from Abel-meholah as prophet to take your place. Anyone escaping from Hazael’s sword, Jehu will put to death; and anyone escaping from Jehu’s sword, Elisha will put to death. And I still have left seven thousand in Israel, all whose knees have not bent down to Baal and whose mouths have not kissed him.”

So he went from there and found Elisha the son of Shaphat while he was plowing with twelve pairs of bulls ahead of him, and he was with the twelfth pair. So Elijah went over to him and threw his official garment on him.

At that he left the bulls and ran after Elijah and said: “Please, let me kiss my father and my mother. Then I will follow you.” He replied to him: “Go, return, for what have I done to stop you?”

So he went back and took a pair of bulls and sacrificed them, and he used the plowing gear to boil the meat of the bulls and gave it to the people, and they ate. After that he rose up and followed Elijah and began to minister to him.

I've been using this lately to encourage my friends. Today, it's feeling like I need to meditate on applying it to myself. I'm finding I have a lot of anxiety about what comes next. My life has transformed unexpected and unrecognizably in the last year.

I think of it as hero-to-zero. I know this is wrong thinking. I'm not a zero. Evidence of that is in the trust that still lies with me. Certainly, losing what I consider the privilege of a lifetime is contributing to my failure syndrome. Like a The wind I seem powerless to stop it from blowing. All I can do is hold on and wait to see what happens.

Insert appropriate sailing analogy here. Hoist those sails and wield the wind!!!

I trust my God, he's never let me down. In this account, Elisha wanted death over what he was facing. But what he got instead was a hug and encouragement to keep moving.

Just keep swimming.

I think I’m in the ugly ducking phase between executing all of those nasty liars and running to Horeb.

He was a deeply faithful man. I guess my concern stems from my perceived lack of faith. Lack of obedience. But, I also think I'm doing the best I can. God's word says that's all we have to do. Our best.

I think I'll say a prayer and go to sleep. Let's see if I wake up to a loaf of bread.

Or at least dream of one.

I’d better start warming up.

Love always, Charlie

#biblereading #1kings #confession #memoir

Discuss...

Here’s a feathernaut to brighten anyone’s day!!

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Oh! Delilah... if only you had truly loved him.

One time, Samson went to Gaza and saw a prostitute there. He spent the night with her. When the people of Gaza heard that Samson was in town, they surrounded the place and waited to ambush him at the city gate. They stayed quiet all night, saying to themselves, “At dawn, we’ll kill him.”

But Samson lay there only until midnight. Then he got up, took hold of the doors of the city gate—along with the two side posts—and tore them out, bar and all. He put them on his shoulders and carried them to the top of the hill facing Hebron.

Afterward, he fell in love with a woman in the Valley of Sorek, whose name was Delilah. The rulers of the Philistines came to her and said, “Trick him. Find out what gives him his great strength and how we can overpower and tie him up to subdue him. If you do, each of us will give you eleven hundred pieces of silver.”

Delilah said to Samson, “Please tell me where your great strength comes from and what could be used to tie you up and subdue you.”

Samson replied, “If they tie me up with seven fresh bowstrings that haven’t been dried, I’ll become as weak as any other man.” So the Philistine rulers brought her seven fresh bowstrings, and she tied him up with them. While men were hiding in the inner room, she shouted, “The Philistines are upon you, Samson!” But he snapped the bowstrings as easily as a thread of flax snaps when it touches fire. So the secret of his strength remained unknown.

Then Delilah said, “You’ve made a fool of me! You lied to me. Now tell me, please—how can you be tied?”

He said, “If they tie me securely with new ropes that have never been used, I’ll become as weak as any other man.” So Delilah took new ropes, tied him up, and again called out, “The Philistines are upon you, Samson!” But again, he snapped the ropes from his arms like threads.

Delilah said to him, “You’ve made a fool of me again and told me lies. Now tell me—how can you be tied?”

He told her, “If you weave the seven braids of my hair into the fabric on the loom and fasten it with a pin, I’ll become weak like any other man.” So she did exactly that while he slept, and shouted, “The Philistines are upon you, Samson!” He awoke, pulled out the pin and the loom, and freed himself.

Then she said, “How can you say ‘I love you’ when your heart is not with me? You’ve mocked me three times and still haven’t told me what gives you your great strength.” Day after day, she nagged and pressured him until he was sick to death of it.

Finally, Samson told her everything. “A razor has never touched my head,” he said, “because I have been dedicated to God as a Nazirite from birth. If I’m shaved, my strength will leave me, and I will be as weak as any other man.”

When Delilah saw that he had opened his heart to her, she sent word to the Philistine rulers: “Come back one more time—he has told me everything.” So they returned, bringing the silver with them.

She lulled Samson to sleep with his head on her lap. Then she called for someone to shave off the seven braids of his hair. As his hair fell away, so did his strength. She began to subdue him, and he was helpless.

She shouted, “The Philistines are upon you, Samson!” He woke up and said, “I’ll go out as before and shake myself free.” But he didn’t realize that the Jehovah had left him.

The Philistines seized him. They gouged out his eyes and took him down to Gaza. They bound him with bronze shackles, and he became a grinder in the prison. But in time, the hair on his head began to grow back.

Meanwhile, the Philistine rulers assembled to offer a great sacrifice to Dagon, their god, and to celebrate. They said, “Our god has delivered Samson, our enemy, into our hands!” When the people saw him, they praised their god and said, “Our god has given into our hands the one who laid waste to our land and killed so many of us.”

In their merrymaking, they called for Samson to be brought out to entertain them. They brought him from the prison, and he was made to perform before them. They placed him between the pillars.

Samson said to the young boy who was guiding him by the hand, “Let me feel the pillars that support the temple, so I can lean against them.” The building was packed with men and women. All the Philistine rulers were there, and about three thousand people were on the roof watching as Samson entertained them.

Samson now called out to Jehovah: “Sovereign Lord Jehovah, remember me. Please strengthen me just once more. Let me, with one final act, take vengeance on the Philistines for one of my two eyes.”

He braced himself between the two central pillars, one with his right hand and one with his left. He said, “Let me die with the Philistines!” Then he pushed with all his might, and the temple collapsed on the rulers and all the people inside. In his death, Samson killed more than he had during his life.

Later, his brothers and his father’s whole family went down to retrieve his body. They brought him back and buried him between Zorah and Eshtaol in the tomb of his father Manoah. Samson had judged Israel for twenty years.

#biblereading #judges #samson #thefall #confession

A couple of points of note: Samson was fine until she began to nag him to the point of wishing for death; a little pressure over a long time can create tremendous damage Until he opened his heart to her, he was fine, that was his end He had seven braids. Had she cut only three or even six, he likely would have endured

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

I walked to talk, and talked to feel—God met me in both.

I am preaching again today. These are country homes close enough to walk, but large curb-less yards mean for long streets.

A huge, shaggy white Great Pyrenees barks at me from the shade of a very large paddock. He wants me to know he’s there, but can’t be bothered to get out into the heat of the sun.

This is the kind of place for this creature. Plenty of room to roam and run and explore. Though I’m sure the dog would prefer cooler weather. This is probably true of most living things here.

I only had time this morning for half a workout, so am happy to walk. My compatriots, all well north of sixty roll their eyes at my willingness to inconvenience myself.

I argue rolling stones and moss.

One man I meet expresses real concern over abandoned children. Thought a phone call cuts out conversation short, he asks that I spend some of my time visiting the local orphanage.

He closes the door before I can explain i do not know there is a local orphanage. That the archaic word conjures images of Oliver Twist and the artful dodger.

Wandering down a long driveway and following signs around a modest home, I find a kennel where I meet a man named Bill who goes by Kenny. He runs a kennel and grooming service. I am disappointed he does not deal with cats. I am still looking for a groomer willing to deal with the creature I tolerate.

He is a 30 year veteran choir director for a large impressive Baptist church. I joke with him that ‘no one is perfect’. We have a laugh. I tap him for tips on assembling an informal group of friends to perform our own choir. Kenny recommends we know how to read music or at least that we have ONE person who can.

We connect when he tells me his wife of 37 years was killed by cancer 3 years earlier. My new superpower is knowing what questions to ask to show genuine concern. They are the questions I want to answer about my own loss:

How long was she sick? How long were you together? What do you miss the most? What was her name?

This is all the priming he needs to know I am willing to let him open up.

I learn that Pam was a wonderful mother and grandmother. How they bought the kennel together thirty years ago and their life was caring for animals together and crafting a loving family. That she fought cancer twice over twelve years. That the chemo was most as bad as the cancer. Kenny regrets not letting her know how much she meant to him. That he took her for granted. That she was the fabric of his happiness.

We both cry a little. He offers his experience on loss (patience and movement) and expresses that it was the hardest thing he’s ever confronted.

I can feel his loss—this is real empathy. I think of my own losses and how devastating just the IDEA of losing a life-partner is. I think I don’t have the constitution to face it if needed.

I offer to show him the Bible’s hope but he is confident he already has the answer. This is fine. I am happy to have had the half an hour of conversation. My goal is to talk to people. I am very good at it. I have a need to do so and even when it’s very personal it makes me immensely happy to have the chance. I thank Kenny for his friendliness and hope we can meet again.

Turning a few blocks on foot alone gives me time to regain my composure from a re-tenderized heart.

Forty-five minutes later as gospel music pours out of an open window, I meet a second man, Justin, who is only two years in on losing his wife of a decade in childbirth with their third baby.

I feel like I’ve won the emotional lottery this morning.

Justin expresses how dark his life had become on January 31st of this year, the anniversary of their death. Determined to turn matters around not just for himself but his two daughters, he opened himself up to spiritual things. He says it changed everything.

He is bright and alive as he speaks about God and his hope in Jesus. I get to share with him the Bible’s hope that he can see his wife and child here on earth in the future. He admits this is a novel idea to him, one that excites him a little. But he lets me know he isn’t looking for a shift in religious affiliation.

As with Kenny, I am happy to have had the conversation and he welcomes me back in the future. A second win.

I have come now to collect lunch. I order a fancy baked potato from a local restaurant managed by one of my neighbors. We don't hang out, but we are both always friendly with one another. He asks to borrow my sump-pump, something he always does after a lot of rain. His storm shelter always fills up with water so he has to pump it dry a few times a year. I don't mind, I only bought it to empty my pool, which is rare.

To say thank you, he buys our lunch. Thank you, neighbor!

I’m sitting now in the busy restaurant parking lot as the rush of lunch-time traffic jockey's for parking spots. Across the very hectic street a man walks barefoot. His hair is matted into unwanted dreadlocks. The man’s clothes are filthy and ragged. He is a regular fixture here in this part of town. We see him every week walking without shoes heat or cold muttering to himself.

Where does he live? Who cares for him? What does he eat?

Answers will only salve my curiosity, not help this man.

This vagrant, Justin, and Kenny all remind me of how DESPERATELY we need God’s Kingdom. Man is foolish and powerless to solve these intractable issues.

Humanity marches toward the long house of our fathers. Some few refuse to accept matters as they are. Those souls living the change they wish to see—against every desire and wind and whisper, they struggle to do right and good.

Pray for them, they most certainly do so for you.

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Trust that the Judge of all the earth will do what is right.

Then Jerubbaal, that is, Gideon, and all the people with him rose early and encamped at the Spring of Harod, while the camp of Midian was north of him at the hill of Moreh in the valley plain. Jehovah now said to Gideon: “There are too many people with you for me to give Midian into their hand. Otherwise, Israel might brag about itself against me and say, ‘My own hand saved me.’ Now, please, announce in the presence of the people: ‘Whoever is afraid and trembling, let him return home.’” So Gideon put them to the test. With that, 22,000 of the people returned home, and 10,000 remained.

Still Jehovah said to Gideon: “There are yet too many people. Have them go down to the water so that I may test them for you there. When I say to you, ‘This one will go with you,’ he will go with you, but when I say to you, ‘This one will not go along with you,’ he will not go along.” So he took the people down to the water.

Then Jehovah said to Gideon: “Separate everyone who laps up the water with his tongue just as a dog laps, from those who bend down on their knees to drink.” The number of those lapping up the water, putting their hand to their mouth, was 300 men. The rest of the people bent down on their knees to drink.

Jehovah now said to Gideon: “I will save you with the 300 men who lapped the water, and I will give Midian into your hand. But let all the other people go back home.” So after they took the provisions and the horns from the people, he sent all the other men of Israel back home, and he kept only the 300 men. The camp of Midian was below him in the valley plain.

During that night, Jehovah said to him: “Get up, attack the camp, for I have given it into your hand. But if you are afraid to attack, go down to the camp with Purah your attendant. Listen to what they say, and afterward you will have the courage to attack the camp.” At that he and Purah his attendant went down to the edge of the encamped army.

Now Midian and Amalek and all the Easterners covered the valley plain like a swarm of locusts, and their camels were without number, as many as the grains of sand on the seashore. Gideon now came, and there was a man relating a dream to his companion, and he said: “This is the dream I had. There was a round loaf of barley bread rolling into the camp of Midian. It came to a tent and struck it so hard that it collapsed. Yes, it turned the tent upside down, and the tent fell flat.” At this his companion said: “This can only be the sword of Gideon the son of Joash, a man of Israel. God has given Midian and all the camp into his hand.”

As soon as Gideon heard him relate the dream and its interpretation, he bowed down to worship. After that he returned to the camp of Israel and said: “Get up, for Jehovah has given the camp of Midian into your hand.” Then he divided the 300 men into three bands and gave all of them horns and large empty jars with torches inside the jars. Then he said to them: “Watch me and do exactly what I do. When I come to the edge of the camp, you should do just as I do. When I blow the horn, I and all who are with me, you also must blow the horns all around the camp and shout, ‘For Jehovah and for Gideon!’”

Gideon and the 100 men who were with him came to the edge of the camp at the start of the middle night watch, just after the sentries were posted. They blew the horns and smashed the large water jars that were in their hands. So the three bands blew the horns and shattered the large jars. They held the torches in their left hands and blew the horns in their right hands and they called out: “The sword of Jehovah and of Gideon!” All the while each man stood in his place all around the camp, and the whole army ran away, shouting as they fled. The 300 continued to blow the horns, and Jehovah turned the sword of each one against the other throughout the camp; and the army fled as far as Beth-shittah, on to Zererah, as far as the outskirts of Abel-meholah by Tabbath.

And the men of Israel were called together from Naphtali, Asher, and all of Manasseh, and they chased after Midian. Gideon sent messengers into all the mountainous region of Ephraim, saying: “Go down to attack Midian, and capture the access to the waters as far as Beth-barah and the Jordan.” So all the men of Ephraim were gathered together, and they captured the waters as far as Beth-barah and the Jordan. They also captured the two princes of Midian, Oreb and Zeeb; they killed Oreb on the rock of Oreb, and they killed Zeeb at the winepress of Zeeb. They kept on pursuing Midian, and they brought the heads of Oreb and Zeeb to Gideon in the region of the Jordan.

This is such an interesting account, especially when, [sighs] like, a lot of change is happening. And it seems like we're asked to do more with less, but this is a good reminder that that is entirely possible when it's for the right reason and you have the right backing.

Sometimes having too much can be an inhibition. Simplifying, reducing, it gives you a—fluidity, a lightness, a swiftness that you don't have when you're carrying a lot or going with a large party.

And this is interesting too because they had 300 horns and 300 water jars. And it's such a strange thing to go over. They- just come up with 300 horns and 300 water jars. But early in the reading, it points out that originally they were 30,000 reduced to 300. So, what is that? Like a tenth of a percent having a water jar and a horn of all those people, because they did give them their provisions. Interesting.

Hmm. So, we don't always know the whole picture, and I think that's my takeaway from this reading: that we just have to trust the process whether we like the process or not. Gideon clearly didn't like it until he got to go up to the edge of the camp and listen to his enemy talk about how scared they were.

I've been confronted recently with some disappointing circumstances, and, it's very frustrating because a lot of the parties responsible for the circumstances don't even realize it. They haven't acknowledged it yet.

So, I'm trying to see this through this lens of, of maybe the hardship that's created for me is going to help them to understand where they failed.

I mean, I certainly understand where I failed. There's no question about that. That's been made very clear to me.

But not everyone understands that.

And if I just go straight at them and tell them, “You know, you were a failure here,”

I know that'll meet with resistance. Because when I talk to these people there's always resistance to the idea of change or things being done differently than the way they think they should be done.

But sometimes you gotta send the soldiers home. You gotta go against the enemy without weapons. Nothing but a water jar and a torch and a good attitude.

That's what I need.

A good attitude, and probably a water jar.

I'm gonna be Gideon.

#biblereading #confession

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Sweet Princes pray for dreams worth remembering, but sometimes the dark of consciousness chases the ether.

4:38 a.m.

A pressing bladder rouses me after only a few hours of sleep. This morning, I’m not blessed with the quick return to slumber. My desperate biology is firing on all cylinders, and my mind quickly wakes to match it. My carnality wants the warm lump next to me, happily cooing a little hiss-buzz, hiss-buzz. Sleep is a precious commodity for her and I don't want to rob her of it if she's uncovered a cache. So, flesh machine, since you couldn't respect my unconscious self, you'll have to contend with conscious me instead.

I move through the house in darkness. It’s not pitch black, but it is lightless. I never turn on lights at night—I’ve made a game of knowing where the furniture is, mastering a “night walk” that spares my toes from phalangeal damage. My partner sleeps poorly. She always has. I do what I can to preserve that fragile rest.

Biological necessity addressed, I confront the unconscious Wolf in the mirror. We stare one another down attempting to assess which of us is real and which imagined. It is just a dim reflection, but it’s enough. A rush of memory crashes over me.

Friday night, 1981. I am nine years old, curled up between the couch and the coffee table, watching TV with my parents and younger sister. The room is paneled in dark, wood-plank veneer with short pile harvest gold carpet. To my right, a large brick fireplace. The coffee table is a heavy, ornate thing with glass inlay, usually smeared with rings from sweaty Coors cans and speckled with ashtray crumbs. This house is a two story home built in the 1940s. The low ceilings give the room a claustrophobic feel in spite of the large, heavily curtained windows behind the television console. My father, before installing the paneling, sprayed the ceiling with a popcorn texture that was popular in the era.

I still remember him with the oversized plastic hopper, struggling under its awkward weight and wrangling the rubber hose feeding it. As the ceiling dried, he applied gold glitter from a hand-cranked spreader. I was seven then. As he turned the crank, the room filled with golden dust, coating everything—including me. Magical. He complained for years after that “the damned glitter never would quit coming off and getting everywhere. Ever.”

That night, ABC is screening The Amityville Horror.

I shouldn’t be watching. I suspect this even as I crouch behind the coffee table, peeking up from the edge. My parents sit behind me on a green-on-green brocade couch. The house smells of ash and old upholstery. The imagery and jump scares have young me in a full panic and I my mother expresses concern that this may be too much for me. My father resists. 'It'll make him tough.' He says.

Then, one of the tamer scenes plays out. Tamer in content, but the effect on me will be lifelong.

A character is washing dishes at a kitchen sink—short yellow curtains at the window. They look up. Two glowing red eyes open and stare back from the darkness outside.

Even now, four decades later, that image still lives in me. I cannot dwell on it often because it dredges up panic. I don’t even like writing about this, but I woke and have stumbled down this memory well. It gives me chills, typing this. My skin prickles with goosebumps.

For years, when asked what I was afraid of, I wouldn’t describe it aloud. I referred to it only as red eyes in the dark. The last time I described it in detail was nearly twenty years ago, in a quiet conversation on a slow Wednesday afternoon at work.

My whole life, I’ve resisted looking out windows at night. What might look back?

I don’t think these images are harmless. They lodge in the developing minds of children and echo across decades. Parents: please don’t let your kids watch horror at nine. Otherwise, they may find themselves wide-eyed at 5:00 a.m. in another century, heart pounding as their ice maker mimics the sinister creaks of a haunted house.

Just now, a neighbor starts up his pickup truck. The low rumble of the engine reassures me. I am not alone in this pre-dawn vigil. I have allies—however unaware they may be.

The house hums, creaks, and settles. My rational mind knows better: there are no red eyes, no blood-soaked walls, no malicious spirits pressing in from the edges. But my limbic system does not listen to reason. It stirs, flush and electric—an indecently lush machine, wired for thrill, fear, and the more exquisite shades of anticipation.

Back in the mirror, moonless predawn light gives just enough to see my face. No glowing red eyes—just mine.

But they don’t soothe me.

Because what floods in now isn’t a horror movie memory, but something deeper. The real terror isn’t supernatural. It’s me. My imperfections. My failures. The reflection looking back.

There he is, the monster I’ve truly been running from my whole life.

Not the imagined demons of childhood, but the flawed, fearful man I sometimes see in quiet moments like this. And in him, generations of the same.

And what do you do when the monster you’re running from lives inside you?

You look. You name it. You stay. Running only wears you out and leaves less for the fight. Bend like the willow and let the storm pass.

Luke 20:1-47

1 On one of the days while he was teaching the people in the temple and declaring the good news, the chief priests and the scribes with the elders came 2 and said to him: “Tell us, by what authority do you do these things? Or who gave you this authority?” 3 He replied to them: “I will also ask you a question, and you tell me: 4 Was the baptism of John from heaven or from men?” 5 Then they drew conclusions among themselves, saying: “If we say, ‘From heaven,’ he will say, ‘Why did you not believe him?’ 6 But if we say, ‘From men,’ the people one and all will stone us, for they are convinced that John was a prophet.” 7 So they replied that they did not know its source. 8 Jesus said to them: “Neither am I telling you by what authority I do these things.” 9 Then he began to tell the people this illustration: “A man planted a vineyard and leased it to cultivators, and he traveled abroad for a considerable time. 10 In due season he sent a slave to the cultivators so that they would give him some of the fruit of the vineyard. The cultivators, however, sent him away empty-handed, after beating him. 11 But again he sent another slave. That one also they beat and humiliated and sent away empty-handed. 12 Yet again he sent a third; this one also they wounded and threw out. 13 At this the owner of the vineyard said, ‘What should I do? I will send my son, the beloved. They will likely respect this one.’ 14 When the cultivators caught sight of him, they reasoned with one another, saying, ‘This is the heir. Let us kill him so that the inheritance may become ours.’ 15 So they threw him out of the vineyard and killed him. What, then, will the owner of the vineyard do to them? 16 He will come and kill these cultivators and will give the vineyard to others.” On hearing this, they said: “Never may that happen!” 17 But he looked straight at them and said: “What, then, does this mean where it is written: ‘The stone that the builders rejected, this has become the chief cornerstone’? 18 Everyone falling on that stone will be shattered. As for anyone on whom it falls, it will crush him.” 19 The scribes and the chief priests then sought to get their hands on him in that very hour, but they feared the people, for they realized that he told this illustration with them in mind. 20 And after observing him closely, they sent men whom they had secretly hired to pretend that they were righteous in order to catch him in his speech, so as to turn him over to the government and to the authority of the governor. 21 And they questioned him, saying: “Teacher, we know you speak and teach correctly and show no partiality, but you teach the way of God in line with truth: 22 Is it lawful for us to pay taxes to Caesar or not?” 23 But he detected their cunning and said to them: 24 “Show me a de·narʹi·us. Whose image and inscription does it have?” They said: “Caesar’s.” 25 He said to them: “By all means, then, pay back Caesar’s things to Caesar but God’s things to God.” 26 Well, they were not able to trap him in his speech before the people, but amazed at his answer, they became silent. 27 However, some of the Sadducees, those who say there is no resurrection, came and asked him: 28 “Teacher, Moses wrote us, ‘If a man’s brother dies, leaving a wife, but he was childless, his brother should take the wife and raise up offspring for his brother.’ 29 Now there were seven brothers. The first took a wife but died childless. 30 So the second 31 and the third married her. Likewise even all seven; they died and left no children. 32 Finally the woman also died. 33 Consequently, in the resurrection, whose wife will she become? For the seven had her as a wife.” 34 Jesus said to them: “The children of this system of things marry and are given in marriage, 35 but those who have been counted worthy of gaining that system of things and the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage. 36 In fact, neither can they die anymore, for they are like the angels, and they are God’s children by being children of the resurrection. 37 But that the dead are raised up, even Moses made known in the account about the thornbush, when he calls Jehovah ‘the God of Abraham and God of Isaac and God of Jacob.’ 38 He is a God, not of the dead, but of the living, for they are all living to him.” 39 In response some of the scribes said: “Teacher, you spoke well.” 40 For they no longer had the courage to ask him a single question. 41 In turn he asked them: “How is it they say that the Christ is David’s son? 42 For David himself says in the book of Psalms, ‘Jehovah said to my Lord: “Sit at my right hand 43 until I place your enemies as a stool for your feet.”’ 44 David, therefore, calls him Lord; so how is he his son?” 45 Then, while all the people were listening, he said to his disciples: 46 “Beware of the scribes who like to walk around in robes and who love greetings in the marketplaces and front seats in the synagogues and the most prominent places at evening meals, 47 and who devour the houses of the widows and for show make long prayers. These will receive a more severe judgment.”

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Help me.

Help me help me help me… Oh! God, where is this peace? Why am I filled with this loss, frustration and sadness? Am I not a good man? Have I not done well? Made decisions for the benefit of all and not my own selfish want!

Death is in me, death is of me, death is on me… I stink of it. I tire of it.

I welcome it.

No doubt, my God, you are more weary than I, facing the suffering of this family since our beginning. But, I would be remiss if I ignored your omnipotence as compared to my powerless impotence. My weak, pathetic intellect is breaking (broken) under this.

It is not death, after all, that is the problem, it is the living—both the doing of it as well as dealing with those that continue in it.

As the treasure hunter scrapes away those last rocky kernels covering the chest, so my sanity is brushed away to open the vault of my mind only to discover an empty vessel. No riches of strength, wisdom or fortitude. Just piles and piles of promissory notes that one day I would be a spiritual giant, capable of facing these difficult times with gratitude and graciousness.

Her madness is my madness. Where is my strong arm to support her? Make this all better? I have nothing but desperation and anger this morning.

Words of consolation feel meaningless… exciting my lack of faith. Faith! Where have I laid this cloak that served me so well through the storms all these many years? Has the wicked one been so effective in dressing me in my own hubris that I can no longer even recall its fit?

Jehovah is my Shepherd. I will lack nothing. In grassy pastures he makes me lie down; He leads me to well-watered resting-places. He refreshes me. He leads me in the paths of righteousness for the sake of his name.  Though I walk in the valley of deep shadow, I fear no harm, For you are with me; Your rod and your staff reassure me. You prepare a table for me before my enemies. You refresh my head with oil; My cup is well-filled. Surely goodness and loyal love will pursue me all the days of my life, And I will dwell in the house of Jehovah for all my days.

My shepherd. My shepherd. My shepherd.

#essay #death #confession #100DaysToOffload #Writing

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

A reflection on loyalty

Proverbs 5: 23 He will die for lack of discipline And go astray because of his excessive foolishness.

It’s fascinating—and often unsettling—to explore our own weaknesses. It is possible to be aware of something lacking in our moral code, yet we are such good liars, we can convince ourselves that it isn't a big deal. That we have it under control. Whatever it is only happens to other people. But it strikes me now how much that sounds like the reasoning of an addict.

In Proverbs chapter 5 Solomon was speaking about morality—specifically, on not being led astray and remaining faithful to the vows of marriage. Ironic, considering the downfall he would later face. But our own moral code is just as defective as the writer’s and we too can and do face consequences for not being loyal and faithful to our mates. In fact, the struggle is greater than ever.

Everywhere we turn there is constant messaging to pursue our own happiness by any means necessary. Except through hard work.

How rare it is to see a book or television show, movie—anything really—portraying beauty and passion that comes from hammering through a troubled marriage. Or mending a strained relationship with a child or a friend.

A few days ago I watched a video of a craftsman making a saxophone. He began with a 12x18 in (300x500mm) sheet of brass. It was a dull yellow, flat and unremarkable. As he proceeded, he beat the sheet into a tapered tube, then pinched and folded the seam before welding it. It was rough and ugly.

Once he had a passable tube the size of a milk jug, he put it on an anvil and started hammering it—leaving deep divots. Visually it just got worse and worse. At this point I still had no idea what he was doing. It seemed that neither did he.

Until he started pressing the walls of the tube through an english wheel.

This tool uses tremendous pressure to smooth and shape the metal. It is a slow, meticulous process but has the effect of crafting the once flat sheet into a refined and graceful item.

After a little time, the once hammered and rough texture was gone. The weld—so hideous—had disappeared.

The dull and scratched surface was addressed after a few minutes on a polishing wheel. Introduced was the incredible bright gold finish we associate with the wind instruments. It was a work of art.

After repeating the process 4 more times, he had the components to assemble the full body of the saxophone. Then he welded, rolled and polished them onto a final instrument.

It was a difficult, labor-intensive process and absolutely fascinating to watch. How much more so must be the relationships of our lives. Our siblings, parents, mates, children and friends. We are all in various stages of forging what we hope are masterpieces. If only we don't stop when we get to the hard stages, the ugly parts.

This is where discipline comes in. We do the work because that is how masterpieces are forged. They do not just happen. There are no storybook 'happily-ever-afters,' there are only 'because-I-make-it-work's. Maybe we should rewrite all those classics and change that last line to: ‘and they kept working at it and working at it all their days’.

That’s what a real prince does. What a true leader does.

The easy path is the one that flows like water, that carries us away and consumes us in a raging torrent of dopamine and epinephrine. Romantically, we call it passion. I expect one day to understand why a stranger can set us on fire while we struggle to find even a spark with the soul that we have been laboring for decades to love. But foolishness is why old men die with young boy faces.

Earlier in Proverbs chapter 5, Solomon points out that we cannot rake fire into our chest and not get burned. Which is a fantastic point. You don't have to understand the consequences of foolishness to suffer them. Do right because it’s right, no matter what you feel. Feelings lie—that’s how we ended up here in the first place.

Trust logic. Trust the standard of right and wrong. Trust love.

This is wisdom and how masterpieces are made.

Daniel 10:19 Then he said: “Do not be afraid, O very precious man. May you have peace. Be strong, yes, be strong.” As he spoke with me I was strengthened and I said: “Let my lord speak, for you have strengthened me.”

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