Strength Bursting Forth

My physical strength, waning out of me long ago, sowed into my sons and now my grandsons.  Yesterday I sat in the woods and watched them haul stones out and move to the top of Brown Mountain and begin the wall that will eventually corral my lover and my old long-gone shells.  We were a dancing, hiking, mountain-climbing wild pair, still are, but the wild is now in our eyes and in our memories.  We have both found Christ's abundant life to be a definitive walk on the wild side, wilder than we ever imagined life could be.  But I digress.  Happens when you’re talking about your lover.  

The point I am trying to make is me in my sons and grandsons.  It is better than the me that was in me.  I could go all day long, but now I can rejoice in them going all day long for me, serving me, helping me live the life I can no longer live independently…as if my physical strength waning out in me is bursting forth in them.  It is a great joy for me.   

The beginning of our Cemetery  

setting up one of my sculptures

Keeps splitting wood for next winter's warmth.

Grace, Grace, Mom's Grace

When I was a young Christian, I had relapsed and picked up an old habit of smoking.  I would hide it from my children by smoking outside and throwing my butts in the ash collection door at the bottom of our chimney.  By this time, we had three children, and one day they were playing kickball outside, and the ball hit the ash door and knocked it open, where they discovered all my hidden evidence.  They all three came running inside, exclaiming to Betty, “MOM, Dad’s started smoking again!!!”  

It was such a bitter defeat for me.  I felt so ashamed, I had let myself down, my children down, and ultimately my Savior.  

Later that day, I was sitting outside under one of our big oak trees, crying tears of defeat.  I called my mom to confess and seek wisdom.  After I told her, she started laughing and said one of the most wonderful statements of grace I have ever received: “Lee, don’t crucify yourself over smoking.  Jesus already did that.”  My spirits soared as they do now, some 40 years later.  I soon quit smoking again, this time for the last time.  Haven’t smoked since.  

The moral of this story is not that we shouldn’t smoke, I doubt God is much concerned with that, but that grace is often offered best by one of God’s servants who just happens to be my Mom.  

My grace teacher all my life, my mom

 

Spring's A Flirt

Spring always seems elusive, here today, gone tomorrow, always a hint but never the whole.  Tomorrow we declare its official start, and it had better be ready to get itself up and get going.  I am ready for a whole lot of spring, cool evenings, warm days.  I have no favorite season; they all bring their own special blessings to my life, but spring always seems to tease itself out, a flirt, flippantly tossing her hair and sashaying in front of me just before she flings a freezing, snowy wink my way.  

The snow storm this week.

 

A Sacred Task

I have set myself a sacred task.  We should all seek these and then walk, hike, and climb them.  Mine is a task of finding rocks.  Even the saying of it seems sacred to me.  Rocks are an exquisitely profound concept to begin with, and a good beginning is critical to a sacred path.  So I walk his woods every day and look for rocks.  They are natural nature so they blend in well and require a certain amount of my attention.  Paying attention is another part of a sacred path; if it is sacred, attention is important, having eyes to see and ears to hear.  I often strike a rock with my walking stick, and the ring informs.  What makes this walking task sacred?  The rocks will be the wall around our family graveyard where my lovers and my body will lie in wait for the resurrection.  Now that is a sacred task.   

 

Fading Away Thoughts

I can just see the buds turning the tree a slight green that goes on and off in my sight, old man eyes.  I sit in the hot tub as two eagles flirt around in front of me, trying to lock in love.  I can only imagine if they nest on our loaned mountain.  I sit still, my lover sits across from me, and I can feel her warmth through the water.  We are old dogs, been around the star a few times together,...she is singing, “Thank you, oh my Father for giving us your son…”  And the years fade till she is transformed into a new angel, which she makes me always believe.  The angel of my only.  Only is such a gift He gave me, my only, one and only, and only one.  We fade into one.    

Our hot dates are coffee and fudge by a stream,
 we know as our own, deep in Appalachia.  

 

Lasts

I now see more lasts than firsts.  When young, one sees the many first coming his way, but as one ages, it is the many lasts you are privileged to see.  The races run, the jobs well done, the tasks accomplished, the relationships you cultivated, and the students who inspired you.  Such was this past weekend, as two inspiring “young punk delinquents” came by to visit.  They were in the last art class I taught at Union.  In them, I was reminded of what a wonderful gift students gave me to have lived a life of such meaning and purpose.  Thank you, Micah and Annabella.  

The Aged Body of Splendor

There is no accounting for the love an aging body can draw out of me.  My lover's body openly sings of the years we have lived together, experiencing life, its ecstasies and tragedies.  Every mark on her is verse upon verse of exquisite prose.  It draws me in to her because we have made them together, and deeper still, on occasion, have inflicted them on each other.  Her body has not aged but has been sculpted, politely so, and is present with me, a living work given to me.  There is no explaining this to the dullness of youthful love.  This love has to be lived to receive; the aged body of splendor.   

 

Come on in and stay awhile!

I can hear the early birds singing.  I stop and record it in my Bible.  If I can hear the birds singing in the rose of night, it can only mean one thing: my windows are open because spring is coming and we are open to her being with us.  

 

Atheism Does Not

 “Not only did we not create the universe, but we did not create our own powers of reason either.  We can develop our rational faculties by use; but we did not originate them.  How can it be that a mathematical equation thought up in the mind of a mathematician can correspond to the workings of the universe?  The Bible gives us a reason for trusting reason.  Atheism does not.  This the exact opposite of what many people think.”

John Lennox, Northern Irish mathematician, Christian apologist, and professor emeritus of mathematics, Oxford University.

A sure fortress against atheism, stay in the woods.

Hello Darlin

I often find myself still and quiet in the dark early, hours of dawn; my thoughts roll on like a gentle swaying train, pushing scenes of love and times, well and ill spent.  Near life experiences.  Charmed, it's titled, life, the pallid light of memoirs spun to praise tunes.  A confessional of “a sinner saved by grace”, spinning a thread of hope to hold the tattered remains of this old man.   

“My hope is built on nothing less…”  Cut and scarred for life, wrung out and being laid by, the greying years a pale indigo of a new dawn sky.  Hello sunshine, “Hello Darlin…”

A One Word Poem

I am sitting by a window, it is light or deep indigo outside, as my part of the earth rapidly moves toward our star.  I just finished reading Exodus’s telling of the building of the Tabernacle.  The word Tabernacle sounds good and feels good in your mouth as you say it.  It has a certain rhythm, a twinkling jingle to it–Tabernacle.  The word means God’s dwelling among.  That’s why it is such a beautiful word.  God words should sound like prose, a one-word poem; Tabernacle.  

Serenity

I am the firekeeper in my family.  It is a sacred trust.  It involves one of the primal needs, warmth.  It also meets a greater need, serenity.  Serenity, living in an atmosphere ripe with peace and calm, is a rare commodity today.  Most often, it is found through nature; mountains, forests, streams, and oceans come to mind.  But fire can also create it.  What is fire?  Scientifically, it is stored energy being released.  I think of it as a Divine gift of pleasure and love.  This is why I have dedicated a great portion of my adult life to being a master fire tender, a keeper of fire; to ensure those of mine can always draw near and be exquisitely comforted by the Divine gift of fire's release of warmth and…serenity.  

 

A Simple Life

I find myself in the woods every morning with my lover, climbing our loaned mountain, which we have named Mount Brown, after my lover’s family.  It is where I need to be.  We live in a small home, 37’/49’, just to look at the earth when we are not walking on it.  We are a sparse couple, few things bring us joy, and we try to keep ourselves close to those things: God in Christ, our family, his earth and animals, deep meaning for personal worship, our neighbors, and working with our hands.  We touch each other!  Throughout the day, we connect our love, souls, and beings by being close.  I am normally quiet; my wife likes to talk.  I am a greater seer; she likes to dance, and I enjoy seeing her dance greatly.  We have few needs that aren’t met by God, and each other, and the three of us in the woods, lakes, and mountains.  It is a simple life of divine and exquisite meaning.     

  

Happy Trails From The Narrow Way

I have woken hundreds of times on the road and weary.  In tents, the finest hotels, antebellum mansions, guest houses, and road houses.  All with the Ancient of Days and art. 

Here I am again on a cold, rainy morning, dark coffee, 12-foot ceilings, a four-poster bed, old furniture from the early part of the last century, and thick, soft rugs.  Old has a certain smell, like the Rock of Ages, years laid by on years, the deep fragrance of time.  I suppose I am beginning to smell that way, incense of age, more and more of me floating into eternity.

Another art show, another lecture, another time to waken my lover for a warm shower and a long journey back to Fair Haven.  Happy Trails from the narrow way.  

 

Working In a Math Factory

There are phases in life where Friday becomes one of the greatest graces, the kindest act, the most needed gift, Friday, a gift from God. These phases also make Monday like I have come out of retirement and am working in a math factory.  Boy, I am always needing God.   

 

 

On Minneapolis

`“Your Soul is Village Size.”  My daughter shared that statement with me about our devices, saying they make our souls live on a global scale.  

One basic thought for all my other thoughts.  Stay off my devices.  Nothing that is happening in Minneapolis would be happening to me if I weren’t on my devices.  People, men, women, evil, good, mothers, fathers, are being arrested and killed all over the world (Iran, Ukraine), including in my hometown, where I live.  But the powers that be, the forces that will shape the world for their benefit, are focusing on Minneapolis to fill up my devices to fill me up in the way they want me filled.  My devices are designed to feed my fears, anger, and hatreds.  That is the truth. 

The real question I face is, “Do I love God with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength?”  If not, then I can stop writing because nothing else matters.  But suppose I do, or at least am trying with all that I am, I can then go on to the second thought that pertains to me personally.  Do I care enough about others to love my neighbor?  I mean,n those that live right next to me, right across the street?  Do I serve them? Help them? Work to keep them safe?  Do I know their names, their children's names?  Their struggles?  Am I daily concerned for them, so much so that they know it?  Do I pray for them, for their family, for their homes, and property?  Do I love them so they know that I love them?

It reminds me of the story of an old Indian sitting with his grandson, who was struggling to become a great Brave.  The grandfather said to his grandson, “There are two wolves inside of each of us, one is evil, one is good.  The evil wolf is filled with anger, lies, resentment, hatred, and pride.  The good wolf is filled with joy, peace, love, and hope.”

“Which one wins?” asked the grandson.

“The one you feed!” said the grandfather.   

 

Bad Bunny

I have never missed a Super Bowl.  The first one where I had a dog in the fight was the 1969 Super Bowl III, when Earl Morrall substituted for my hero Johnny Unitas and lost to the Jets and Joe Namath.  He was my second hero (I can remember going to Cherokee Hardware in Athens, TN, and buying my first pair of white cleats). Half-time shows were just marching bands like college games today.  They eventually became more interesting, hosting the Blues Brothers, The Rolling Stones, and the last one I can remember watching, Bruce Springsteen.                                                                                                                      Bad Bunny is not my thing, but I imagine if Taylor Swift or Lady Gaga (again, not my thing) played in Porta Rico, they would sing in English.   Morally,-- sexualizing the Super Bowl just seems wrong, and whatever is said,  I later saw pictures that looked like something I couldn't sit and watch with my granddaughters and grandsons.   I would be very uncomfortable, another thing I don't want to be while watching the Super Bowl.   There is no moral to this story, just how I feel           

The Bad Bunny of my day with all his and my pals. 

One Great Gift

I am old, an ancient burl of a man.  Broken, been cut up and boiled down, bent, lame, and hard over.  Old and nigh near 70.  But…sometimes, deep within me, in the ancient part, I can feel I am a child to the Father.  There is no freedom like that freedom of feeling the remembering of being me as a small child.  That is one great gift. 

That's me, 3rd from the left.  I can sometimes feel
him in me, as real as it was real.

 

“Trees have only one leg,” Dad!*

An old student with a great soul is a dear friend of our family.  A couple of years ago, he read a blog of mine, “Well Done Thy Good and Faithful Tree,”** about a great red oak that had fallen here at Fair Haven.  He decided he would like to make a table for us out of the tree.  Last year, he came and cut the tree into sections to season and get ready to be milled.  This weekend, he came and milled it.  It was a great pleasure watching a man, a timber framer by trade, harvest a massive tree and carefully, with sincerity, turn it into a stack of boards; a deeply meaningful spiritual experience.  Age upon age, ring stacked on ring, now being exposed, laid open, revealing the aged beauty of creation.  

Now, with skill, perseverance, and trade, he will create a table of it.  As true an image of God as I see these days.  Image living, Maclin Williamson. 

*Maclin's son Lee, named after me, said that to him.

Maclin setting up to mill the log.
**  https://aaronleebenson.blogspot.com/2024/09/well-done-thy-good-and-faithful-tree.html

In My Experience

No one lives or writes in a vacuum.  One writes from within their present reality, forged from past experiences, molded and shaped in ways that create the current experience.  From these experiences, he writes.  But there is also an overarching, encompassing foundation to his understanding of his life’s meaning.  “All things work together for (his) good,” regardless of whether he has the stamina to rise to believe this.  Sometimes his need for strength to believe is his greatest weakness.  In this experience, he finds it nearly impossible to write and focuses instead on staring into vast beauty, where he always finds God and His good working for him.   

 

Beautiful Feet

 "How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of the messenger who brings good news, the good news of peace and salvation, the news that the God of Israel reigns!"  I have received good news!

Smoke On The Water*

Sunshine, dawn, rain, blue skies, forests, rivers, pelicans, fire, coffee, music, The Word, time, lover, knowing, being, present consciousness; “We must be in heaven, man!”1  No, but it is a glimpse.  “The best of life on earth is a glimpse of Heaven; the worst a glimpse of Hell.  For Christians, the present life is the closest they will get to hell.  For unbelievers, it is the closest they will come to Heaven. 2

1 Wavy Gravy MC at Woodstock

2 Randy Alcorn, Heaven

*Smoke on the water, God and Deep Purple

 

Indigo

Indigo is my favorite color.  It is the first color of assurance that morning will soon be broken.  

 

The Kindest Surprise

Nothing prepared me for being saved.  Nothing in my imagination was as wonderful as the life that was given to me has panned out to be.  I was wholly unprepared for God’s glory, His gift to me of His eyes and ears, His senses, His feelings, which He gave me to experience Him, life, marriage, love, work, parenthood, and the good works He has prepared for me to do.  I was made alive, so alive that it shocked me how dead I was before.  This good life is his gift to me, so that I am not boasting, but only giving credit to whom all credit belongs.  I am never prepared for this. It is the greatest and kindest surprise of my life.     

At Thanksgiving we have a tablecloth we bring 
out and everyone writes what they were most thankful for
this past year.