Starbean

I have been thinking of how the coffee bean produced Starbucks.  I cannot think of another seed that is responsible for the growth of a corporate empire.  Beans are magic.  Jack and the Bean Stalk come to mind.  But to grow one of the greatest global empires is some track record.  Beans and seeds, underrated miracles of Divine proportion, and the coffee bean seem to be king of the bean hill.  If you know of a seed of a similar pedigree, please comment below.  I’ve already thought of cocoa and Hershey's.

A Morning Psalm of Thanksgiving

Morning's first light awakens the soul as surely as the infant's first breath swells the body to his first awakening on earth.  Oh, to capture the first exhaled breath would be to own a treasure paling even the sun.  For life is the entry to life eternal which the sun only lights the first step.  God who lit the first, alone lights the rest.   

I have seen thousands and thousands of first lights.  
A gift I was given by genetics of an early riser.  God, however, 
made me look for it as I look for Him.

  

The Party Is Never Over

The party’s over.  our family stayed up late amid all that glittered and was golden, tightening the ties that bind.  The party’s over.  We will use all points of the compass to go our own way today.  The miles ever trod will be trodden again.  I have never been a part of any other family, the one dealt was the hand to work with.  But we are good, harnessed well, yoked easy.  We are a party, know how to party, throw the party, and are each the life of the party.  We learn early on what it means to be the center of attention.  For good or bad we love being on stage, encourage it, expect it, demand it.  We dance, sing, write, create, teach, and heal, all to our family’s audience.  We are raucous at the dancing two-year-old, the solving of Goldman Sachs issues, and the newest salvation.  We love a good fall and summit.  We are dog people, horse people, and wild animal lovers, we have love to spare.  But the party’s over.  In the quite early morning, I can already see eyes glistening, ready for coming years, the laughs, the tears, the hero’s past, present, and being made, the walkers with God.  We have the gift of tarrying because with every moment squeezed empty confirms what we all know.  Our party is never over, the Tie that Binds is responsible for our here and our forevermore.  The Party’s On!!!  

Christmas 2022, 19 loved ones, 5 dogs, and 1 cat.

 

Away Over Jordan's Stormy Banks

I was sitting quietly in my son’s guest room on Christmas morning.  I had read the Ancient Text beginning poignantly on the 23 Psalm.  I had read Lewis and Keller.  Prayed.  Written and still, our home was quiet.  I opened the blinds to see dawn come and begin to just be with Him.  I am tired of faith.  Really growing weary of the ongoing imagination of Jesus.  The Spirit’s stirring in me a mix of hope, longing, and doubtful wandering.  Faith is all we have.  There is nothing but a memory now.  I am growing ever more dependent upon The Spirit to keep up my lagging faith.  I imagine this is The Way.  The Way of our daily borne cross which in the end leads to a dying of seeming forsakenness while all the while our faith’s Object is carrying us away over Jordan’s stormy banks.    

A Longing Always Filling

I am very glad the day is here.  I tend to make it about too many other things trying to capture the one thing, you.  Trying to have the feeling.  To capture something dear, innocent and worth longing for.  But Father your son came, 2000 years ago he came, and now we are left with the hope, the memory, the record.  But the real thing is the hope of it happening again, you coming again.  You coming in glory.  Then it will change to us going, us being made complete, us being transformed into glorious personhood.  Perfection.  All longing filling.  Not to a longing fulfilled but a longing always filling.  The joy of always being with you, seeing you, working in your kingdom.  The forever ecstasy of fulfilling.  The working out successfully of whatever our hearts, minds, and hands put themselves to.  Always leaning in well.  To be a part of your work, eternal, time no more, no hurry, no pushing forward, no growing old, no limits of imagination.  

God when one begins to write about the expectancy of you coming again and what that means it leads to an opening view that slowly ceases to materialize.  We run out of descriptions.  We are left with inadequate imaginations.  And then our writing turns to one letter at a time as we try to think the unthinkable.  Glory Halleluiah.  Us with You in paradise.  What?  Unimaginable Filling! 

Merry Christmas Father.

Communion and Candle Light Service last night with
all 19 of us.  A hint of the longing always filling.

  

 

Finding Your Socks in Your Underwear Drawer

My Christmas spirit is beginning to wane.  I don’t know why.  I am faithfully doing Advent, buying gifts for family, giving generously to the needy, and watching all the Christmas movies.  I continue to read the Bible, go to church, and remind myself repeatedly to remember who Christmas is about.  But it's fading.  I have begun to see its end and the day after and know it will swiftly pass away, followed quickly by New Year’s Eve, and 2022 will close with its Christmas past and 2023 will begin with its hustle and bustle.  My days seem to pass with a vague sense of searching for something, but I don’t know what.  Like I am missing something but not something particular that I sweep the house clean looking.  More like a feeling of, a sense of, something I own but can’t possess.  I am once again at this story, got to the last sentence yesterday and laid it down without a settled end.  After re-reading I now realize it is not that I have lost something but that I myself am lost, always feeling a bit misplaced, as if I have been put here but not where I belong.  I am not losing the Christmas spirit but am not wholly with the Christmas Child.  Until I am fully, physically as well as spiritually, with Him, I am miss-placed.  Not lost only mislaid, like finding your socks in your underwear drawer.  

      

That Tug in Your Heart is the Christmas Blood

A great gathering is coming.  I can already feel the rising swell of family blood being drawn together as we prepare for our journey over the hill and through the woods.  Christmas is about many things including one new baby child come to be a brother to many and Lord of all.  But mainly Christmas is about the blood drawn from Emmanuel’s veins which now rises in the just and the unjust drawing all together for a momentary global gathering.  There is a lot of noise leading up to the gathering much like long ago as people uprooted from their lives were forced to their ancestorial homes, where their blood came from, which now flowed through them.  The blood in this story flowed from a King, David, and before him from Adam, Eden, and then from the Great Beyond.  

I saw a tugboat early this dark morning.  It was heading east groaning under its great burden all decked out in its traveling colors, royal colors of Christmas, blue for the King, red for His blood.  Yes, the tide is gathering, and the world is slowly turning to one quiet dawn when we will all once again gather according to the blood that flows in us.  Some the blood of their ancestors and some the blood of their Savior but all because of the blood of the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.  And we will peer down into a manger and behold the baby filled with the blood in which we lose all our guilty stains.  

The tug.

39 Years Being The Blessedest Man

I am where I have oft been, aground in a small hotel room deep in the Appalachians, my lover sleeping, The Ancient of Days and Text duly renewed, and now sit quietly with His heart and mine thinking.  It is the morning of our anniversary day; 39 years ago today was not like this.  I woke in the Bachelor’s Annex at TSD, scared sick lying cold and lost on my waterbed.  It was my wedding day.  A shattered bottle of medicine lay on the floor dropped there sometime in the middle of the night as I staggered around trying to become brave enough to marry my lover.  I was marrying out of my league, a scrub beside a first-rounder, a sinner to a saint.  I shan’t dare tell the Old Old Story but blessed be it finds me here, these many years later, her safe enough to sleep soundly in our now Holy Matrimony.  Mine eye hath not seen that cold morning so long ago, nor my ears heard, nor had it entered my heart the wandering wonders He had prepared for us, but this morning I am reminded once again… I am the “blessedest” man on the face of the earth. 

Yesterday doing what we often do, altar repairing away 
hidden deep, Holy Ground known only to few.  

    

Old Lovers

We were sitting reading.  Night was just beginning, the tree lit and the fire inviting us to lean in like a whisper to a bad ear.  It was quiet.  I reached out and ran my gnarled hand over my lover’s body searching for a warm place to tuck in.  A healing place.  I thought how gifted it is to have a helping lover.  Her body was as much mine as hers and as welcoming to my soft wonderings as a familiar path.  We sat quietly and read but my heart was being serenaded.  I looked out across the river our Advent wreath and candles posing between.  I turned to read again, my old hand warming, and began to think poetry.  God is good.  God is great.  Let us thank Him.    

 

Not Being A Memory At All

I am having Christmas breakfast with my mom today.  I never know how I might find her.  She could be completely present, the mom I have known for 80 years, or she could be someone who struggles to know me or be in a peaceful state of awareness at 87.  I am in one of the greatest struggles of my life.  I am finding myself more and more thinking to God that it might be better if He brought her to Him.  I am not yet praying this.  To difficult.  Praying for me is absolute and I cannot be absolute.  I also struggle listening to mom tell me of her loneliness, unhappiness, and longing to be with me and my siblings.  It is painful and stems from irrational fears which leave me deeply hurt as to how best to help her.  It is the most catastrophic love affair I have ever had.  My mom, who used to tell me secretly in whispers she had prayed to have me, is no longer aware I am her dream.  She whispers strange sentences to me, and I respond with sweet talk; “what is your favorite ice cream mom?”.  Life can be so painfully forgotten.  I talk to God about it.  The hours I sit with mom are no longer sitting with mom but me trying to help her remember she is my mom.  All the memories we made to create the relationship we have are now only mine and more difficult, I am not sure if I am any longer a memory at all. 

Come and See

Come and see.  The greatest invitation of all time.  No fear here, the evidence is clear, so He invites us, Come and See.  That is the truth of it.  The evidence is so overwhelming.  It is all around us that you are you, you are kind, you are brilliant, you are calling us, hounding us as in the Hound of Heaven.  It isn’t like you are mildly interested or on a fancy reach out to us, but are fantastical in your call, a circus of unimaginable acts, you name the stars, you thought up rain, puppies, kissing, and warm lovers.  It is like me as my best trying to win my lover with all my feats on display but you, you are omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent.  You know every trick, can command atoms as well as galaxies, you can, by your own power, will all to stand still or dance.  Oh, you lover of us, your whimsies are trees, love, and light and your earnests are sacrificing your beloved son!  Who can withhold his heart when confronted with such glory, manifested, wooing glory?  Come and see!  But the show is eternal?  But you keep saying, come and see…and the seeing overwhelms.  Why?  Because—you give us eyes to see.  That is the arch that supports our souls, you give us eyes to see…because the show is better than the eyes we have.  They are not capable of seeing until our very eyes are…………………

Redeemed.  Blessed Redeemer Precious Redeemer… 

 

 

Come and See

I am studying a lesson titled “Come and See” about people bringing others to see Jesus.  I love this idea because its focus is on our eyes and then our ears.  They come and see Jesus and then they hear him.  A few years ago, while searching for an Advent devotional for our Advent season I discovered Hubble Advent.  It is a series of images captured by the Hubble Space Telescope, one a night, that gives such beauty to our understanding of Christ coming in power.  It has been a part of our Advent ever since.  This year it wasn’t posted, and I longed for Christ to come to my eyes through the beautiful images of his creative whimsy.  Last night at the end of our Advent I decided to check again and lo and behold there it was—Christ had come to see us once again.  As I understand it God is creating the whole cosmos for one reason, to tell everyone He loves them, has a plan for each of our lives, and wants desperately for us to spend eternity with Him.  

“You will see heaven open up and angles descending…”.   This year again, Hubble opened the heavens so that we can see Christ.  

“God’s splendor is a tale that is told, written in the stars.  Space itself speaks his story through the marvels of the heavens.  His truth is on tour in the starry vault of the sky, showing his skill in creation’s craftsmanship.”  Psalms 19:1…    

Pillars of Creation, Hubble's first Advent image.  
"Come and see."
https://www.theatlantic.com/photo/2022/12/2022-space-telescope-advent-calendar/672317/

 

Morning Advent of Praise for Rain

It is raining.  I am in my studio, half a table, looking out this dark morning of rain.  A good rain is a great cleansing.  A sky full of greys, cold, pushing me back into my cotton robe and refilling my coffee cup giving me time to be.  I like cold raining mornings.  They free me from the hurry of the possibilities blue skies demand me to get things done.  Raining mornings allow dawn to go on for hours, allow a third cup of coffee, a chance to listen to that song again, to think of what to write.  Instead of writing, I think I will listen to the song again.  It was an unexpected visitation from God last night while my lover and I quietly settled into Advent as our evening came to a close.  Here is His visitation to you.  Good rainy Advent morning to one and all. 

Lo, how a Rose e’er blooming

From tender stem hath sprung!

Of Jesse’s lineage coming,

As men of old have sung.

It came, a flow’ret bright,

Amid the cold of winter,

When half spent was the night.

Isaiah ’twas foretold it,

The Rose I have in mind;

With Mary we behold it,

The virgin mother kind.

To show God’s love aright,

She bore to men a Savior,

When half spent was the night.

This Flow’r, whose fragrance tender

With sweetness fills the air,

Dispels with glorious splendor

The darkness everywhere.

True man, yet very God,

From sin and death He saves us,

And lightens every load.

A Good Fish (Art) Story

Everyone likes a good fish story, the big one caught or got away.  This morning I was reading about the disciples in John and realized Jesus was always living a good fish story.  He always seemed to show up when the big one got away and then filled the nets to overflowing.  He also had post-fishing stories where he made lots of ready-to-eat fish, more than thousands could eat.  I imagine those were the best fish fries ever.  He cooked fish, ate fish, and put money in the mouths of fish all to come to the disciples in ways they could appreciate him.  Who doesn’t like a good fish story of the ones that didn’t get away?  I fish sometimes, mostly not catching but always hope-filled.  I like Jesus’ fish stories.  It underscores my own story, art.  He always has a good art story for me and always astonishes me with his art knowledge and kindness.  I’m not exactly sure what all this means other than it seems to be kind and important.  Good fishing and good art-making are profound ways to be found by Jesus, and who, when lost, doesn’t like to be found.  

Another fish story, is a man being caught by fish; Jonah.

    

Misfit

Misfits.  Those who don’t fit the mold perfectly.  I have been a misfit all my life.  Lots of molds, few I fit perfectly.  There was a season I threw myself away from any mold, just trying to do what was pleasurable, like eating the whole pack of Oreos.  But I have also learned, matured, been coached, or become moldable enough to fit perfectly in lots of molds.  Sports, friend, layman.  Many I have worked desperately hard at, Christian (what I’m currently doing) husband, father, grandfather, artist, teacher.  I could have been tossed out of many molds, misfitting enough to be exchanged for someone better qualified, smarter, stronger, more sincere.  But I have been helped much along the way, people seeing a misfit and reaching out to help.  I could go to sermonizing but the prodigal son is mostly known by all.  The point of these thoughts? I will have many misfits come my way, underqualified, not the favorite, second string…just like me.  Do unto others.  Better sermon anyway.   Should read more of His blog and write less of mine.   

Biking Chicago

        

How Sarah Saved Christmas...

...and revived two old souls.  Many traditions are tied to our home.  Growing up I never had a home for long.  By the time I graduated from high school I had moved 11 times, several in the middle of the school year.  In 1996 our four children, Betty and I moved to Jackson Tennessee, to 79 Countrywood Dr., and made it our home for 25 years.  (It is important to this blog to know that our youngest daughter Sarah Blessing was only 2 when we moved and had only known this as home.)

We began immediately to form traditions.  One of the most beloved occurred the weekend after Thanksgiving.  We would drive out to a local Christmas tree farm, ride in a wagon pulled by mules, harvest our Christmas tree, drink hot chocolate and return.  We decorated the tree, ordered pizza, and settle in for a den floor, evening picnic, and watched a Christmas movie.  Our children grew up, married, and had families but we continued the tradition.  Two years ago, we sold the home, gave our children most of our things, and moved into a dorm room on Union’s campus.  Last year we were so committed to this tradition we pulled it off in Kingston.  Found a tree farm, had the family, pizza, and a movie.  There were a few differences, no mules, no wagon but all in all the tradition survived and all were snugged in for another year.  

2022 has been a bit of a struggle for Betty and me.  I am retiring in 2023, we are trying to build a home on the other side of Tennessee, my mom is struggling with ancient life issues, I have a large sculpture commission I am trying to begin that will last 5 years, am trying to prepare for my last solo show at Union and trying to find time to have joint replacement surgery.  Add to this the Art Dept. is losing five people I am mostly tasked to oversee the hiring of their replacements and as of this writing, we haven’t filled one.  To say we are under a bit of stress would be exact.

Last week we came to Kingston fairly wrung out but settled in to begin our Thanksgiving week.  On Sunday it suddenly dawned on us we had left all our Christmas decorations, from the tree stand to the star and everything in between in Jackson.  I wanted to lie down in the woods and let winter have its way.

However, Sarah, so tied to the tradition, was having none of it.  She leaped into action like a duck hunter on a duck.  She baked dough ornaments and had her schoolchildren paint them.  She encouraged us.  We began to make paper chains from old magazines, and I made a silver star out of cardboard and aluminum foil.  She had some old ornaments, a few decorations, several Christmas movies, and arrived yesterday with a fresh dozen Krispy Kreme’s.  Sissy and her family joined us and by evening were picnicking and watching It’s a Wonderful Life in front of a beautiful tree in a warm home filled with saved traditions.  Sarah had saved Christmas and, in the process, revied two old souls.  Merry Christmas!                     

 

Her school children ornaments.

Puttering in People's Hearts

I am not a chit-chatter.  I’m often accused of a “cutting too close to the bone” conversational style.  I am exceedingly and painfully shy.  I have a hard time knowing what to say and the anxiety of it often causes me to say nothing.  I am truly very interested, interested in the person, the real person.  Not what they do for a living but what they would die for.  Not their favorite restaurant but what they think about God.  Not what they did yesterday but what they would do if they could have their dream life.  I find people oddly intriguing and want to know them intimately.  This is both a curse, men normally aren’t like that and aren’t wanting to share it anyway and today it’s never good to venture too deep into a woman's heart (except your lover); and a blessing, there is always someone who will throw in with me and share their story, allow me to putter around in their hearts.  I live a fairly adventurous life, I enjoy a good footpath, poking into far corners and seeing what’s around that bend yonder, to see if I can touch the bottom.  The same goes for people, I long to know the times they’ve gone the distance, submitted, came away scarred but alive, lived beyond their emotional means, survived, and thrived.  We had our annual Benson get-together yesterday, all were present but fourteen, eleven of which were mine, gotta share that time with other families.  I laid in bed in the early morning hours today thinking about all those people, most of whom I know a lot about.  We are a curious lot, centered solidly in Christ.  We’ve been around the bend, straightened by the deadly curves, scarred terribly, self, God, family, and others inflicted but we are strong, very strong, and boy do we have stories.  All in all, I had a great Thanksgiving, I know many of the skeletons in the closets, names of the wounded, those who are about to summit, and those like me who are passing them on our way down. We are a clan, an all-for-one and one for all, in it to the end, puttering in each other’s hearts, family, children of God.  Amen.  Let Advent begin.  Let me be the first to say, Merry Christmas. 

      

A Hidden Spice for Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Day 2022

Sometimes I am shocked by the way The Word and life have a gift of togetherness.  I am still reading 1 Chronicles, and it can still be dry, name after name unpronounceable by a mouth shaped in the southern United States but this morning the book was spiced with life.  In chapter 16 King David returns the Ark of the Covenant to Jerusalem and “Then on that day David first appointed that thanksgiving be sung to the Lord…” and he has written a song to be sung.  It begins “Oh give thanks to the LORD; call upon his name…” and continues, a beautiful song of thanksgiving.  I had never thought how appropriate this would be on Thanksgiving until I read it on Thanksgiving.  So, to all of you this day, King David and I wish you a sweet song of Thanksgiving to the Lord “from whom all blessings flow”, good family, good food, and good songs.  

From our family to yours.

      

Through Hiking with Day Hikers

Life is a journey with people, no one treks the earth alone.  Some are through hikers, you, and those you will travel with from beginning to end, some, are day hikers we meet for a moment and then our paths diverge.  Day hiker personal relationships are strenuous.  We rarely share much in common except a brief spot of trial often marked “Difficult.”  Doing a difficult trail with through hikers is good because you are each encouraging the effort needed to push through, however with day hikers it is never so easy.  You don’t have a long-haul relationship in common, you only have to hike together for a short period so the gift of comradery is often not a part of your relationship.  But the trail remains and the wise hikers, the true hiker, the through hiker, know all partnerships are valuable if seen as valuable.  They do not seek encouragement as much as they seek to encourage.  Helping others to love the hike is encouraging enough for the through hiker.  Hiking is the point, the trail through the earth, and being on it with anyone can always be made better if one chooses, often choosing even when the trail is made a little more difficult.  

       

I See Sometimes

I see them.  They are huddled in corners on side streets, laying prone on a subway platform, folded up on city benches.  They never move, hidden beneath layers of rags, silent, still, sculpture.  I pray for everyone.  They could be angels sent to guard us, visible only as they rest, their war so violently swift we can’t see them working.  But when they rest, we see them.  They are much like their Master, “no stately form or majesty to attract us, no beauty that we should desire Him” so humans pass them by, ignoring them, caught up in our own majesty.  We call them homeless or street people, but they are the Celestial Sentinels, warriors, keeping us safe as we busily go about; blind to the Divine.    

 

NYC

11-11-22.  NYC.  I love this town.  Would like to live here for three years.  It would be tough.  The noise, the flow against you, the lack of a big sky, and the never alone; ever walking, riding, and being with thousands of strangers.  But I love it in small doses.  Three years is a small dose in imagination and I imagine it would be nice to fully explore this city, to know its intimate nooks and beautiful crannies, to see it stormy, fully fall, bathed with snow and orange sunsets, and occasionally bump into the rich and famous as we did yesterday.  On any given day you see what you normally never see juxtaposed against what you never want to see.  There is so much crammed into so little, it is height, width, and depth density of sight, sound, feel, taste, and smell all at a warp speed you experience up close and intimate, personal, in your space, which allows you to live at warp, conscious of every second.  And then you rapidly become numb to all that and just go with it, the flow against you now includes you as you go along.  The madness becomes an odd rhythm, a tune with a thousand instruments and everyone is tapping to a peculiar melody.  You open yourself up to the chaos and begin to see the tapestry of the human will being woven into a Big Apple, its New York Baby and it is very good…in small doses!      

Targeting Buckey

A few weeks ago, as Betty and I hiked Fair Haven we came upon a giant Sweet Gum tree that a beaver had gnawed down.  He has done this before even cutting down a small Giant Sequoia that we had been growing for ten years.  I determined that day that I was going to kill the beaver.  I see them all the time, so I was fairly confident of ridding myself of this aggressive fellow.  For days I thought about my decision more and more and realized I didn’t really want to kill a beaver.  When we left to return to west Tennessee, I prayed God would keep the beaver off His land and away from His trees.  I do not know the moral of this story but only that  I can’t kill something unless it is for something bigger than a tree.  I hope whatever the moral is I don’t have to learn very often.  

Lovers Make Growing Older Better

I have been thinking a lot lately about the heroic and humble efforts it takes to fulfill all the roles age requires of you.  I can remember fondly the role of self alone; playing, eating, sleeping.  Now I am a Christian, husband, father, father-in-law, grandfather, artist, employee, chairman, and taxpayer, and more recently, an active son with his own set of good and grave responsibilities.  Each of these roles I play alone and each requires learned skills in order to be good at them.  Many of these require leadership.  I never knew the great difficulty of the aged, especially those of us who stay the course, keep involved, and remain open-armed to all.  I remember my mom crying every time a certain family member’s name came up, physically shuddering in overwhelming grief.  I didn’t understand it and thought her to be overly emotional.  How small my heart was while all my family's burdens lived under my roof.  Now only my lover lives under my roof and lives that mean more to me than mine can easily make us both shudder in tears as we move once again to our knees.  This is not a sad or difficult tale, it is one filled with ecstasy, hopefulness, and unrivaled joy.  Yes, the difficulties are now more acute but are part of growing old as your tent expands.  It is a fairy tale because at the beginning of this tale I said “I play alone” and at the end of the tale, God reminded me that my lover was given to me for all roles I have to live and there isn’t anything that Betty doesn’t make better.  

     

Turn Off and Tune In

There is one great need in this world, a daily realigning us toward goodwill.  However, our devices are always pitting us against others, those our device controllers make to be our enemies, those dumber than us, meaner than us, wronger than us.  That is their point.  Over the years I have become more and more aware of God’s great force on me to every morning turn alone to him.  Give him a chance to change me.  His great aim is to reconcile.  First, reconcile me to him and then for me to help him reconcile others to him.  He is for all people; he wants all people to be reconciled (restore friendly relations between).  First between Him and us individually, and then between me and you.  It is the only way.  I like this so much better than the anger and frustration my devices continue to feed into me.  Turn off and Tune in is the only answer to our great need to be reconciled (restore friendly relations between.).  Turn off.  Tune in!

 

Inside The Serene Violence

Once again in this early fall morning, darkness still not giving in as he pals around with cold, I sit quietly beside a roaring kiln fire, the majesty of it transforming the roar to a powerful presence.  Unless one has spent years beside a kiln it would be impossible to perceive the beauty of the basic elements, earth, water, air, and fire, being mightily constrained inside a box.  The box roars, the fire spews forth every hole seeking air enough to burn, the heat continually drives you further and further back as these elements are violently but serenely rearranging atoms, neutrons, and protons with earth metals of copper, cobalt, and magnesium to produce colors unimaginable in any canvas painted by man.  It is truly God’s work going on inside this magic box and roar is a sound His creating well produces.  And I have been allowed to sit beside His workspace quietly reading His Ancient Text, having a cup of good coffee, and imagining the wonder of what my Savior's up to inside that box? 

Staggering Reality

As I grow older clarity of meaning grows clearer.  All of life, for all people, is a quest for God.  If one refuses redemption it eventually becomes a hollow search for self meaning through attempts of self-realization.  I have traveled that road briefly denying myself nothing I desired.  Self realized is a difficult and offensive one to live with after even a few years.  God in Christ, however, is as dear a companion as one could ever hope to have.  I, like most, used to consider my relationship with God in Christ a religion.  It was not until my late 20’s I began a slow understanding of relationship with God as a relationship between Him and me alone.  It certainly has a small religious part; I regularly attend and work in and for a local church but that is more maintenance than relationship.  The relationship with God that I have been given by Christ is more like God revealing infinitesimally small parts of Himself to me and me becoming staggard by His reality.    

God allows you to know Him even in 
a bird's home built like a sculpture.

          

The Coming Eternal Opening Act

I often think of the great power it takes to tilt our earth to fall and winter’s rest.  The unreserved kindness is what strikes me as odd as if the forest might someday decide to turn itself into brilliant colors.  I can never seem to be as grateful as these random kindnesses demand.  It is like the dawn, or warmth or love in my heart, whole-hearted love that causes a longing for fulfillment.  My life often seems a tryout for a grand play of euphoric gratefulness, as if someday I might be called for the lead.  Oh, the sets would be something else and the opening act eternal.         

Dawn in Milos this summer.

Big Old Jet Airliner

Up in the high rise, overlooking a great river and surrounded by one of America’s famed cities.  Our sliding door opens us to the ocean breeze and the healthy aroma of inland waterways, living the high life, many stories above the fray.  My lover sleeps.  My mind drifts away to the mountains.  I flew away yesterday.  I am not a big fan of flying but do like aspects of it, two or worth mentioning.  One is the idea of going to or coming back from an adventure and two, which prompted this short blog, is the ability to see things from above.  Above is a great perspective, you see everything.  Everything is mostly wide open empty spaces, forests, rivers, mountains, farms, lakes, and oceans.  The earth is mainly empty wilderness, but from above you miss the people.  I imagine that is one of the reasons God sent Christ; he missed his people.  That is always meaningful to me, God feeling so much like I feel, loving the wilderness but wanting to share in it with those I love.

         

Who Will Save Us?

I travel regularly to America’s large cities and stay for days in their centers.  In the last several years I have seen a troubling trend; large sections have been given over to decaying squalor.  I do not understand.  Why does a culture, a community, a country decide there are certain parcels of its domain that ceases to be civilly addressed, abject surrender to degradation.  Our media devices feed us an ever-increasing gruel of political slop pitting you against me, which we lap up, while our country decays around us.  “Wretched man that I am!  Who will set me free from the body of this death?  Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” 

Gloria in Excelsis Deo

The earth is ripe and being harvested, and all of west Tennessee is under the harvester’s scythe.  The earth producing bounty is a perfect proclamation of The Loving God.  The richness of harvest, corn, soy, cotton, and more rises in row upon row of exuberant abundance.  I will miss this about West Tennessee.  Every fall I have my lover drive me into the fields to experience Gloria in Excelsis Deo. He never disappoints.

Where The Wind Blows?

Have you ever felt the fight, been in a situation tense with violence needing only a spark to become an instant inferno?  Have you ever known it spiritually?  As if you are keen to the Veil, ear to the mirror no longer dim?  My lover and I feel that way about our town.  She suggested we drive around its border and pray.  Yesterday we did just that.  It was holy.  As the miles tripped by our prayers became more urgent, our spirits more tender, and our hearts and bones burning within us.  We desired our praying to be connected with others praying, that lives, churches, schools, businesses, authorities, families, governments even the very land, air, and vegetation would be bound up under His authority.  We also prayed against with great fervor.  However, it was the ending that meant the most as we both wept under the Lordship of God’s Almighty presence in our prayers.  And then it ended!  Abruptly.  And The Wind blew away where it might and we were tired.  

 

My Well Soul

The river is like shimmering mercury this morning, veined with dark blue steel, cold but beautifully living.  Everything at Fair Haven is alive and no sign of man.  My lover and I lounged around the edge yesterday, reading, napping, me beholding her, warming me as much as the sun, and both, like sundials, often turned to rest in the warmth.  So free we were that often my mind would instantaneously create for me a memory of some sweet time long ago.  I was living peacefully while simultaneously viewing reruns of joy-filled bygone days.  Peace, upon peace, upon peace with my lover aside the river; “when peace like a river attendeth my way.”  Fair Haven.   

      

My "Cheatin Heart" In The Belly of the Fish

I have been up since 2:19, 5:35 now.  I struggle with insomnia but truly it’s worry and concern that so often causes “sleep won’t come, the whole night through.”  God and I have had a time this early morning, Him searching me, me finally listening.  All of life comes down to loving Him and loving others as ourselves.  It’s the latter that I often struggle with.  Reading Jonah I see a lot of myself, enjoying my love for myself, quickly forgiving all my transgressions while bemoaning all others' transgressions toward me.  Jonah wasn’t written by Jonah but about Jonah.  This blog is about me and is mostly written by God.  "Who will save me from this wretched man I am?"  Hank didn’t answer that, God did; “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord.”   

I am in the midst of attempting to write
the Bible.  The illumination for the book of Jonah.

  

A Brother of a Young Jewish Man

I was shamed the other day.  Several men, collogues actually, surrounded me calling me hurtful names, laughing at me, and running me down in front of many of my other collogues.  I have lived through this so many times, mostly in church where I learned early on, many Christians can only feel holy by making you feel unholy.  As a preacher's kid, we moved often, mostly because these “Christians” would throw my dad out of the church for being “unholy” in their holy eyes.  But I digress.  One thing about moving so often is you would have to go into a new school alone, defenseless, no gang to have your back.  Often this would lead to fights or scraps but mostly to just being an angry kid.  This anger eventually turned into rebellion and a long trip down the highway to hell breaking every speed limit.  I have thought a lot about what happened the other day.  It was just ripping the scab off an old buried wound, I was once again just that new kid, “hippy boy”, who many loved to make fun of.  There is a moral to this story.  While on that highway to hell a young Jewish Man “had compassion on me, ran to me, wrapped his arms around me and kissed me” and made me His Father’s son.  The other day, that shaming day, a brother of that Jewish Man heard it all, came up beside me, put his arm around me, and reminded me, “your cool” because That Young Jewish Man, now lives inside of you!  Thank you David Ward!

The Young Jewish Man's brother, David Ward.

A Charming Tale

I am often charmed by The Word of God. I sit quietly alone in the dark reading and thinking and being set upon by Him.  This morning I read Jonah and Numbers' account of Balaam.  I was carried away by God’s sovereignty over winds, worms, plants, donkeys, men, religion, and kingdoms. This overarching kingship awakens me to the dearness of faith, faith in the above-described God who also lives in me.  My faith is often carried away in emotion.  Such was the fire this a.m.  But the reality of life is faith is only faith when one is not charmed by emotion but changed by God in Christ by the Holy Spirit. This truth came to me when it was not the talking donkey or the killing worm that enchanted me but the God, the One and Only God who strives with me alone, who demands a personal relationship with me, me, in reality, not much more than the worm or donkey and yet here I am, He and me and the very air I breath is His and the chemical makeup of that same air that satisfies my lungs and my lungs and my movements that type out this short note.  And the band marches on and I am again charmed by this God, my God, I am His and He is mine and I am His heir.  The fairy tale that is no tale.     

Child of God

A child was named for me last week.  A new human being bears my name.  It is not a minor thing this naming a human after another.  It is more like a compact, an agreement between father, mother, child and me.  It goes something like this.  They agree that my life is worthy and the worthiness is titled, Lee.  I agree that their new life is worthy of the titles as he is to manifest the qualities the father and mother see in me.  It is also a gift of thanksgiving from the parents to me and a pact that I will continue to live a life modeled to be watched and imitated by the son.  The entirety of this compact is based on one absolute Truth; anything good and worthy of emulating in the father, the mother, the son or myself is due completely, wholly and with all gratefulness on Him who lives inside of us and His manifestations in us are those that are the ink on the compact.  It is this ink, God in Three, that will eventually live in Lee Alan that will someday be passed from him to his which will be titled his name sake.  It is the way of God, passing Himself from generation to generation, for all earthly time, His compact that we are literally His children, here and forevermore—the children, Lee Alan, child of God.  

 

26438400 Seconds and Counting

I have learned to number my days.  I’ve been on this earth longer than I will be.  But that is an abstract concept at best.  The great artist, Damien Hurst, once put a dead shark in a tank of formaldehyde and named it, “The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living”.  Although I consider the piece very strong, I believe the title to be one of the all-time great titles.  As a child of God I rale at the thought of death, so heinously evil to the idea of life.  But I have strayed down the rabbit hole.  This blog is about my retirement and how this year it is before me, a handful of months away.  Every day I think about it.  Every day I long for it and dread it.  Every day I am now conscious of every day. I shall soon walk away from what I have joyfully and with great passion pursued for 40 years, never, yes it is even hard to write, never to return again.  I will go on.  Have already made plans, travel, mowing, maybe preaching, and teaching. But these are abstractions at best.  I am now living out the counting of my days, 306 left and that is not an abstract number nor is 7344 hours or 440640 minutes, or 26438400 seconds…back down the rabbit hole.  

Prayers On Leviticus at Kiln Watching

Leviticus 19-25. God Father in Three, all of life is meant to live in communion with you and in a continual state of holiness.  You offer yourself wholly in both ways.  It is the greatest of gifts.  We are living, here, on your earth, and in relation to the earth as a means of being in a state of gratefulness and thanksgiving toward you.  It is ongoing and often in celebration.  There is no loss, all is yours that you are sharing with us.  All the growth of crops and “splendid trees” and water and all other blessings are blessings you give.  In all this, we are to praise and worship you, formally and informally as a way to express our gratefulness.  We are also to party and celebrate with and for you as another way of showing our gratefulness.  We are much like you since your statutes, rules, laws, and guidance are always in the form of what we can do.  You allow us to be in this relationship by acting and performing in ways that are sincere and honest; you give us dirt and rain and sunshine and we grow crops and feed ourselves but we do so understanding that it is you that is providing all of this, even the magic of soil growing plants.  It is all a play we are performing before you the audience, a play of love and complete devotion in thanksgiving.  

Father all Three of You, thank you so much for this relationship.  For offering in abundance all the ways we can clearly see you working and being on behalf of us.  For giving us such splendid meaning, your children, by giving us liturgical acts of living, tilling the earth, toiling with a glad heart, firing kilns with the understanding that these elements are yours, that even the wind, rain, and even light lay in subjection at your feet.  God what a wonderful God you are.  We are yours and as we act in sincere communion with all that you have made we are actually partaking in your Holiness.  God Almighty was a splendid way of life.  

My Righterness

I love being made right(er).  I get this all the time from all over.  Sunrise makes me righter.  My lover is always making me righter.  Some people, by bumping into them make me righter.  But there is one Righter who can really right me.  Jesus, Himself as my Savior, makes me ultimately and eternally right(eous) so that I am right to be with God forever.  But it is simply better than that.  Jesus, by His Word, and then meditations and even by writing this, is making me righter for this day that lies darkly ahead of me.  I pretty well know myself, and I am mostly unright as me, to do or be anything that will make others that bump into me today righter themselves.  In fact, the opposite is true.  Me as me is most likely to make people I bump into wronger more than righter.  Who will save me and them from me?  Jesus always gives me that; I bring nothing to the bargain except being open to it and He is always generous to share his righterness!    

Guest Blogger, Dr. Britt Benson

Mom fail today:

I went to Once Upon a Child to look for Halloween costumes for the kids. I found Zachariah a dino costume, which is what he’s been asking for. I couldn’t find a black cat costume for Rosemary, which is what she wanted, but they had the cutest little ladybug outfit! I got it home and tried it on her. She was fine until I put the wings and headband on her, and I said “Rosemary you are a beautiful ladybug!!!” Then she realized I had dressed her up as a “Bug” 😩 She hates bugs (screams whenever she sees one—abhors all of them.) She’s so upset I would dress her as a “Bug”. I have a month to convince her she’s not a “bug”….🤦🏼‍♀️

 

Living and Active Stones

Oh to have the stones that will rise up to praise Jesus.*  Those would be valuable stones.  About 100 of those arrived yesterday.  I am endeared to stone, grew up around them, worked with then, climbed on ‘em and now make sculpture with ‘em.  At some point, a fluid point, one that gradually moved from unawareness to the only point, sculpture for me is the way I declare God, only Him, that is the purpose.  I cannot say I had anything to do with it.  It is like a small boy growing up walking around the land with his father and slowly becoming aware that he was walking around His father’s land, his earth, his Kingdom.  After a long while the boy realized that the land, his Fathers kingdom, all of it was really praising the father for the father had made it.  Such are stones for me, the everlasting presence on this earth that God is good.  Yesterday a few His stones arrived here for me and mine to make sculpture with, and what they will ultimately declare is, “the earth is LORD’s and the fullness thereof.”  

*Luke 19:40

Those Were the Days My Friends

We all belong to a brother and sisterhood of our youth.  Those glory-filled days of intense love lived in bodies always fierce.  These intensities burned white hot but quickly cooled by the energy required in the demands of growing up.  The passions of the love of brotherhood replaced by obligations, deadlines, and inboxes.  However, in grace, God allows those memories to be gently held in those youthfully built strongholds of our hearts.  I had a great homecoming yesterday, those ancient days of youthful passions once again became the flesh and blood of those that lived them with me.  A reunion of sorts, small, with many not present and some passed on but where the young sweetness of hearts aflame with life could be rekindled in shared remembering.  It was a life event for me, strongly foundational, a returning to my roots of sorts, where a misspent youth is placed aside for the joy of love as only youths can have, in hearts that have grown kindly old,  sweet with wisdom, and understanding from experience.  To the brother and sisterhood, may we all be this to those—till we meet again—Those were the days my friends!  

 

The Burning Kiln

There are sacred spaces in the world—truly.  Spaces where God is so comfortable that he regularly visits them.  In the Bible, these spaces are regularly filled with fire and water, darkness and winds, and the very elements being rearranged in glorious fashion.  It is hard to understand but no less true that sitting in front of a kiln is just such a spot.  I have been doing this for years, sitting with The Great Ancient Text, a great cup filled with good coffee in front of a roaring warm kiln.  It is as common as dawn but as holy as a burning bush.  I know this seems overly dramatic or even fantasying of the faithfully dim but one can only speak of that which he experiences and of where it regularly happens and of Whom is always there.    

 

Turning A Half-Wit Into a Whole

If there is anything that I have done to improve my lot in life it would be reading and writing.  My mom birthed in me a love for reading.  She often read to us as children and those are very powerful and vivid memories.  I love to read and read constantly.  I will read between 20-50 books a year including the Bible clear through.  I read 4 or 5 books at a time all contributing to different parts of my life, spiritual, educational, and recreational.  I begin and end every day reading.  I did nothing to be this way.  My mom did it.  The writing part I can take some credit for.  When I was 14 a new show came on TV, The Waltons, about a family during the depression.  The oldest son, John Boy, loved to write, sitting at his upstairs window at night and writing about his family.  I felt a kinship with this family thinking it reminded me much of my own family.  It was also meaningful to me that John Boy was always recording his thoughts which I decided to do myself.  At 14 I began to journal and I have written almost every day since.  These two things have elevated my life experiences in so many ways.  Given me a great amount of knowledge, wisdom, and understanding.  Encouraged me to go see many of the places I have read about.  Placed my foot upon many a trail of beauty, art making, meaningful experiences, and mountain ranges, meadows, streams, and byways.  In the process, it has also left a trail of my life behind me.  Many of my journals are filled with the sinful walk of a wayward son but most are the story of a half-wit becoming a whole with his God.   

Scanning for Beauty

Life, my life, is often the visual scanning across studios seeking that one most sincerely beautiful object.  Most all my days for the last 40 years have been spent in studios filled with objects vying for my attention.  It is a grand and meaningful way to live, hide and seek of beauty.  Every year my skills are truthfully honed by God himself.  As I am with Him he creates in me and ongoing sensitivity to beauty.  It is part of His generosity, like oxygen and light, giving us wisdom to be who He made us to be.