Millstone offers a great name for its morning medium roast--Foglifter. I've never had it but I'm willing to cut it some slack due to this fantastic name. I wish I had it on that fateful day back in February 1980 when my neighbor Todd Parson and I went into the woods beyond Greasy Creek to hunt quail. There was a dusting of snow on the ground which makes birds stick longer before they break to flight. Quail are hilariously funny to watch when they are on the run.
After spending an hour or so shrouded in the beauty of frosted timber it was time to leave for home. We'd made the trip many times but this one was different. A fog came across the lake and settled into the entire acreage. We knew exactly where we were, but not where we were going. Our bearings were entirely off kilter--lost in a whiteout of snow and fog. If we walked too far west, we could fall through the ice on the creek, too far south and we would be on a thinly frozen lake. It was terrifying.
I grew up hearing my Grandfather preach about Jesus saving those who were lost. I was quite certain that I could only be sure of heaven if I first knew I was lost. That frightened me initially because I didn't feel particularly lost. The only other time I was lost was when I was 5 at a Christmas parade in Providence Ky. It was a three minute eternity of horror that was immediately remedied by the sight of my mother. The contrast in emotions when one is lost and then found is forever etched on the soul.
As I've gotten older, I'm more comfortable with the feelings of lostness. On the occasions I get lost (Hey, I'm a guy!) I still don't like it, but I always sense an assurance for coming through it. In matters of salvation, I wasn't lost because I didn't know where I was, I was lost because I didn't know where I was going, and my options were far more perilous than I wanted to entertain. And just because I didn't feel lost didn't mean I wasn't.
Todd and I determined that day to stay put and stay calm. But the fog didn't lift and it was getting darker. I'm quite sure that moments before we both died from heart failure, through the fog, we heard a voice calling our names. It was my father's voice. He suspected our predicament so he made his way up the trail and called to us from the ridge above the bottoms. We immediately had our bearings. We knew where we were going.
I still get lost from time to time. The fog rolls in and though I know where I am, I don't know where to go. I think back to that day in the whiteout, and I listen for my Father's voice.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
A midlife crisis?
I'm such a schmuck. Two days before we went on vacation-- that would be two weeks ago-- I bought a motorcycle. Not a month earlier I had poo-pooed the idea with Gary the Globetrotting Evangelist that I'd never risk endangering my life--not to mention the future of my children's image of my death--by riding a motorcycle. That went out the window for reasons that I'm not certain of at this point. Simply put, I want to conquer my fear of riding this machine on auto infested roads. Being a country boy I rode nobby-tired dirtbikes over the open spaces of my rural upbringing. City riding is more of a challenge-- a fear I want to put to rest. Too much of my life is controlled by fear of stuff..and people. I want to check this thing off my list.
Second of course is all the hullabaloo I hear from riders who speak of how it makes one feel to embrace the elements on two wheels-- words like freedom, relaxation and young-again come to mind. Thirdly, four dollar gas! Though many have told me I'm wasting my time pursuing the cost benefit by the time you buy the bike and all that goes with it.
I have yet to feel any of these presumed benefits but I did take a ride through McCutchanville today and the wind under my helmet and against my shirt gave me some sort of satisfaction. Right now I'm just struck with the "coolness" of it all. I haven't felt cool in a long time. Maybe that's why old guys like me do this thing. Maybe it's a ploy to keep me chasing the cool of my youth while forsaking the wisdom of age. I hope not. That would be a tremendous regret. So right now I'll settle for conquering a fear. That seems noble enough. I'm celebrating with a cup of Myron's Kilimanjaro blend!
Second of course is all the hullabaloo I hear from riders who speak of how it makes one feel to embrace the elements on two wheels-- words like freedom, relaxation and young-again come to mind. Thirdly, four dollar gas! Though many have told me I'm wasting my time pursuing the cost benefit by the time you buy the bike and all that goes with it.
I have yet to feel any of these presumed benefits but I did take a ride through McCutchanville today and the wind under my helmet and against my shirt gave me some sort of satisfaction. Right now I'm just struck with the "coolness" of it all. I haven't felt cool in a long time. Maybe that's why old guys like me do this thing. Maybe it's a ploy to keep me chasing the cool of my youth while forsaking the wisdom of age. I hope not. That would be a tremendous regret. So right now I'll settle for conquering a fear. That seems noble enough. I'm celebrating with a cup of Myron's Kilimanjaro blend!
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Lipstick on the Rim
The cafe of the day is my kitchen table. It's the 4th of July, my family is visiting Grandparents in Louisiana, and I'm alone, in the quiet, to take a personal inventory, a life self-exam, which is very scary. The flavor of the day is Starbucks Tarrazu (a gift from Donna Zinn), which is superb—even though I got the grind wrong! Drinking from Andrée’s Rooster Mug (it reminds her of France), I feel like I have her close to me. Chuck Loeb is playing a great riff in the background (the house was too quiet!).
I was told to never drink after anyone, and by no means should I put my mouth to a water fountain. The warning always came with the tag: “You’ll get trench mouth!” As I got older, I realized that I never knew anyone who contracted trench mouth, so my best friend, John Wimsatt, and I started drinking out of each other’s glasses. There were no apparent side effects. My mother was still horrified. I’ve often wondered if she was more worried that I’d catch “Catholic”, which John was, more than any biological disorder. No trench mouth and I remain pretty firmly Protestant.
So I sip from Andrée's mug and think about having her close. Even when you aren’t fully engaged in a house with people, there’s proximity with them that is always, shall we say, “streaming”—to borrow a net word. The stream is broken when they leave. Like most mugs that belong to females, this one has been through the dishwasher but still has a slight remnant of her Revlon Coffee Bean #101 on the rim.
She’s tortured me with that lipstick ever since we dated. My first encounter with it in a personal way was just after I’d professed my love for her. Before making my 7:45 Greek class, I put a note on her car that read “Good morning Sweetie! I love you!” Later that day, I found a note under the wipers on my car. She had taken my note, blotted her lipstick on it in the shape of a kiss and wrote, “I love you too!” I went through a molecular destabilization on par with that of mutated superheroes. I still have that note.
I write this entry, I think, because my heart is preoccupied with the events of the past few days. A husband and father from our church, very much like me, buried his soul mate yesterday. He had tons of time to prepare for it, but how can you prepare for what it does to you when the house is too quiet? Would you still listen for the garage door to open as if she’s returning from the grocery? How does one ever stand at a sink again to brush your teeth or comb your hair? She was always there—either right there, or “streaming” somewhere around the house. What do you do with all the stuff? Her stuff? Everything you touch tells a story. The story of you, together. I wouldn’t get past the lipstick drawer for years.
I drink great coffee from a special mug, tainted with just a tinge of lipstick, a tinge of her. Our dog likes to lounge on an article of her clothing. The 3-year old wants to sit in her lap and touch a mole on her neck. I understand now. We need contact points when those we love aren’t around. We need them with God too. The patriarch, Jacob, needed some rocks at Bethel to remind him of God’s presence, a tangible reminder. My dog needs something from the dirty clothes. I need to put my mouth to a ceramic utensil that bears the imprint of my wife's lips. To do so is to have her here, with me in the quiet.
I was told to never drink after anyone, and by no means should I put my mouth to a water fountain. The warning always came with the tag: “You’ll get trench mouth!” As I got older, I realized that I never knew anyone who contracted trench mouth, so my best friend, John Wimsatt, and I started drinking out of each other’s glasses. There were no apparent side effects. My mother was still horrified. I’ve often wondered if she was more worried that I’d catch “Catholic”, which John was, more than any biological disorder. No trench mouth and I remain pretty firmly Protestant.
So I sip from Andrée's mug and think about having her close. Even when you aren’t fully engaged in a house with people, there’s proximity with them that is always, shall we say, “streaming”—to borrow a net word. The stream is broken when they leave. Like most mugs that belong to females, this one has been through the dishwasher but still has a slight remnant of her Revlon Coffee Bean #101 on the rim.
She’s tortured me with that lipstick ever since we dated. My first encounter with it in a personal way was just after I’d professed my love for her. Before making my 7:45 Greek class, I put a note on her car that read “Good morning Sweetie! I love you!” Later that day, I found a note under the wipers on my car. She had taken my note, blotted her lipstick on it in the shape of a kiss and wrote, “I love you too!” I went through a molecular destabilization on par with that of mutated superheroes. I still have that note.
I write this entry, I think, because my heart is preoccupied with the events of the past few days. A husband and father from our church, very much like me, buried his soul mate yesterday. He had tons of time to prepare for it, but how can you prepare for what it does to you when the house is too quiet? Would you still listen for the garage door to open as if she’s returning from the grocery? How does one ever stand at a sink again to brush your teeth or comb your hair? She was always there—either right there, or “streaming” somewhere around the house. What do you do with all the stuff? Her stuff? Everything you touch tells a story. The story of you, together. I wouldn’t get past the lipstick drawer for years.
I drink great coffee from a special mug, tainted with just a tinge of lipstick, a tinge of her. Our dog likes to lounge on an article of her clothing. The 3-year old wants to sit in her lap and touch a mole on her neck. I understand now. We need contact points when those we love aren’t around. We need them with God too. The patriarch, Jacob, needed some rocks at Bethel to remind him of God’s presence, a tangible reminder. My dog needs something from the dirty clothes. I need to put my mouth to a ceramic utensil that bears the imprint of my wife's lips. To do so is to have her here, with me in the quiet.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Reality Roast bites!
“Remind me to come and visit you when I want a break from reality.”
Walter Matthau, Grumpier Old Men
I woke up thinking about the retirement fund that my employer won’t contribute to for another year, and wondering if I am worth more money. Of course, I have these thoughts just a few hours after finishing a day where I’m not sure I contributed to the
I don’t think that I’ve ever been comfortable with reality. While an optimist may be applauded for his positive contribution to family and work, an honest look at what needs to be embraced in the moment can go completely ignored. I have the capacity to enjoy a moment but feel disconnected to what its implication may have on the future. I am afraid it borders on irresponsibility at times. Actually, I know it does but I'm optimistic!
I am also amazed at how people are quick to come to my rescue when verbalizing this sort of internal examination. People do not seem to want me delving into those thoughts of potential character flaws. I have often been forced from those depths if introspection at just the time when I thought I was making progress. I wonder if Christians don’t want other Christians to deal with inauthentic issues because they don’t want to admit their own shortcomings as well.
Yesterday I sent my family, each of them, the appropriate messages that I love them and desire to be with them. I showered and shaved, more closely than the day before because someone commented on my shadow. I dressed in the usual blue and khaki and came down for oatmeal. The boys were taken to school. The truck sent to maintenance and repair for some rusting u-joints. My wife collected me during the wait and drove me to the office. I say “to the office” because I couldn’t say “to work.” I went back and forth between a desktop and a notebook, listening and reading but very little responding or initiating.
The idea of entertaining a change of employment, a move to a different location, does not interest me in the least. And yet, there is this deep dissatisfaction with where I am professionally. I just finished a book, if you can call it that. I feel like I threw something together at times. I desire a real sense of attachment to my work, yet possess no burnin
At times, reality is so foreign to me that I wonder if I truly know what it looks like. At first glance, I appear to be lost in some way, drifting. I wonder how much I must surely frustrate my wife and kids with this. So often I just don’t feel like I know what to do, and when I do act the potential for nobility or irresponsibility is a coin toss. I have often cloaked utter disregard for reality by calling it risk-taking, or worse, faith.
So I sit here in the dark, on a couch that is less than comfortable, at
If I possess any sense of drive, it is to make certain that my children don’t fall into the same trap. Of course I am only attempting to steer them away from these pitfalls, I have no real assurance that I’m doing such a thing. I can handle them falling into junk by their own choosing, but not from a lack of preparation on my part. I don’t want to minimize this purpose but is there more? There’s reality, ...........and there’s grace to face it.
Window Shading
Do you ever think about how the American custom of going to lunch with others isn’t actually conducive to deep conversation? I am convinced that another reason coffee and conversation go so well is the practical and simple idea of looking at the person you’re with. For a whole host of reasons, I don’t make eye contact with someone while I’m eating. Conversely, I can sip coffee and never look down. Most of us aren’t so self-conscious with sipping. Eating is, of course, another story.
How are you with eye contact in general? When I was a young man, my businessman/grandfather told me that there were two keys to first impressions: eye contact and a firm handshake. One was formed by a physical connection, a clasping of hands. The other connection was much more vulnerable because it was so subjective. The locking of eyes with another can send an abundance of messages very quickly.
From the eyes of another we can detect the beginning of stories, the first step of a request, the heat of anger, and confidence—the presence or lack of it. When was the last time you really made eye contact with someone? How long did you maintain it? Was it someone you love, or a stranger?
Every now and then I watch this relational exercise between individuals. I have learned that those with power and influence do not readily give eye contact to others. Walk beside a famous athlete through a crowd of adoring fans and you will see her autograph an abundance of paraphernalia but never give eye contact. She will focus on the task and keep walking. It’s like, if she stops and really engages, she will die.
You don’t have to be famous to neglect this powerful contact point. At some level, we all keep the window to our souls shaded from would-be peeping toms. We get really good at it over time. I’ve been married for 15 years and it doesn’t get any easier to peer longingly into my wife’s beautiful brown eyes. Is it because I fear she might see something I don’t want her to know?
I have talked with men who almost have this “window shade” dynamic as a part of their job description. They aren’t professional poker players but you would think so by how well they guard their gaze around society in general. I think they do it because of all the demands placed upon them. If they give others eye contact, it becomes a pause that leads to obligation.
The problem with this behavior is that they cannot flip a switch and give such connection to those who deserve it. Having counseled those desiring deeper intimacy, I ask them to preface any conversation with an intentional gaze, and not to begin until eye contact is established. It can be a very frustrating exercise. I can’t even get my 3 year old to do it.
Deep down, I am afraid of captivation. In Proverbs 6:25 we are admonished to avoid sexual immorality: “Do not lust in your heart after her beauty or let her captivate you with her eyes.” For men and women, the eyes are powerful instruments of charm. Law enforcement officials tell us that only the sickest individuals can kill while looking into the eyes of their victims. They eyes of a victim possess the plea of one who is created with eternal value—the soul speaks of the image of God and its’ connection to one who would do harm. The wiring of life’s sanctity, no matter how corroded, can be sparked by the divine in those moments—a captivating call to the precious value of an image-bearer.
Now, what about Jesus? Can we even begin to know what it would feel like to have eye contact with the Son of God? The gospel of Luke, chapter 6, tells us that before Jesus gave the greatest sermon ever preached, “He brought the disciples before him, and he looked at them.” Were they captivated or repelled by this act of invitation and examination? What would it look like for you to attain an encounter with Christ that captivated you? What would it feel like for you to be caught in his gaze?
How are you with eye contact in general? When I was a young man, my businessman/grandfather told me that there were two keys to first impressions: eye contact and a firm handshake. One was formed by a physical connection, a clasping of hands. The other connection was much more vulnerable because it was so subjective. The locking of eyes with another can send an abundance of messages very quickly.
From the eyes of another we can detect the beginning of stories, the first step of a request, the heat of anger, and confidence—the presence or lack of it. When was the last time you really made eye contact with someone? How long did you maintain it? Was it someone you love, or a stranger?
Every now and then I watch this relational exercise between individuals. I have learned that those with power and influence do not readily give eye contact to others. Walk beside a famous athlete through a crowd of adoring fans and you will see her autograph an abundance of paraphernalia but never give eye contact. She will focus on the task and keep walking. It’s like, if she stops and really engages, she will die.
You don’t have to be famous to neglect this powerful contact point. At some level, we all keep the window to our souls shaded from would-be peeping toms. We get really good at it over time. I’ve been married for 15 years and it doesn’t get any easier to peer longingly into my wife’s beautiful brown eyes. Is it because I fear she might see something I don’t want her to know?
I have talked with men who almost have this “window shade” dynamic as a part of their job description. They aren’t professional poker players but you would think so by how well they guard their gaze around society in general. I think they do it because of all the demands placed upon them. If they give others eye contact, it becomes a pause that leads to obligation.
The problem with this behavior is that they cannot flip a switch and give such connection to those who deserve it. Having counseled those desiring deeper intimacy, I ask them to preface any conversation with an intentional gaze, and not to begin until eye contact is established. It can be a very frustrating exercise. I can’t even get my 3 year old to do it.
Deep down, I am afraid of captivation. In Proverbs 6:25 we are admonished to avoid sexual immorality: “Do not lust in your heart after her beauty or let her captivate you with her eyes.” For men and women, the eyes are powerful instruments of charm. Law enforcement officials tell us that only the sickest individuals can kill while looking into the eyes of their victims. They eyes of a victim possess the plea of one who is created with eternal value—the soul speaks of the image of God and its’ connection to one who would do harm. The wiring of life’s sanctity, no matter how corroded, can be sparked by the divine in those moments—a captivating call to the precious value of an image-bearer.
Now, what about Jesus? Can we even begin to know what it would feel like to have eye contact with the Son of God? The gospel of Luke, chapter 6, tells us that before Jesus gave the greatest sermon ever preached, “He brought the disciples before him, and he looked at them.” Were they captivated or repelled by this act of invitation and examination? What would it look like for you to attain an encounter with Christ that captivated you? What would it feel like for you to be caught in his gaze?
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Deep Java 3
Recently I had one of those deep conversations in which coffee was on the table. It was a pastoral conversation. Like Andree, she is a beautiful woman as well, but today the redness of weeping mars her blue eyes and milky complexion. She has been wounded deeply by the best friend she has ever known. Deception. Betrayal. She is out for justice. The tears she cries are mixed with rage and pain. The friend has confessed and repented. She knows what she has to do, but the doing of it escapes her. “I’ve read the Bible, I know what it says. ‘Forgive as you have been forgiven.’ And I know I have been forgiven. I love my friend and want desperately to forgive, but practically, so much is in the way. I want him to hurt like I hurt, and I just don’t think that he does. I understand confession and repentance, but I want there to be consequences. I want him to feel great pain before I forgive”, she nearly chuckled at the closing remark. I sipped my coffee. She stared at hers.
As she stalls a moment, I think back to my conversations with Andree, years earlier, about the sovereignty of God in a shattered and scattered world. Then she spoke. “I just don’t think he has suffered enough. Is that it? Does he go back to normal just like that? There are no consequences-- just like a man to want it fixed and done with-- no consequences.” “Oh but there are”, I said. She doesn’t see it-- “Where? Show me because I don‘t see them.” I sipped again (for courage maybe?) then spoke. “Do you remember all of those pictures of Jesus on the cross? All the images of the crown of thorns? Remember what you saw in movies about his crucifixion? Do you really believe that happened?” She fumbled with her sweater, nodding affirmatively to the inquisition. “Of course”, she replied flatly. I paused letting her connect the logic. “It’s hard putting the crucifixion in such an immediate crisis, isn’t it? And yet, it is our immediate crises that required such a horrible consequence. As long as God allows this world to turn, people will live with the need for the cross of Jesus. You have now experienced this provision as acutely as an attack of appendicitis.”
It was a watershed moment for her. Finally-- practical theology in the present tense. The cup holding her latte finally reached her lips. It was an image of drinking more than just a caffeinated beverage. The gateway from her mind to her heart had been opened. Her soul was flooded with what a personal relationship with God looks like—vividly, and at great cost.
Embracing the truth of a thing doesn't mean that there is instant adjustments or applications. Forgiveness is a very difficult destination, but it's the difficulty that makes it great. Much like the liquid result which finally finds its way into the cardboard cups we hold, the refinement of forgiveness is a tedious process, attained by thorough grinding and extreme heat. She's enduring the process to attain the result. I am very confident of her commitment to do so. "He who is forgiven much, loves much." Such is the promise to which she clings.
As she stalls a moment, I think back to my conversations with Andree, years earlier, about the sovereignty of God in a shattered and scattered world. Then she spoke. “I just don’t think he has suffered enough. Is that it? Does he go back to normal just like that? There are no consequences-- just like a man to want it fixed and done with-- no consequences.” “Oh but there are”, I said. She doesn’t see it-- “Where? Show me because I don‘t see them.” I sipped again (for courage maybe?) then spoke. “Do you remember all of those pictures of Jesus on the cross? All the images of the crown of thorns? Remember what you saw in movies about his crucifixion? Do you really believe that happened?” She fumbled with her sweater, nodding affirmatively to the inquisition. “Of course”, she replied flatly. I paused letting her connect the logic. “It’s hard putting the crucifixion in such an immediate crisis, isn’t it? And yet, it is our immediate crises that required such a horrible consequence. As long as God allows this world to turn, people will live with the need for the cross of Jesus. You have now experienced this provision as acutely as an attack of appendicitis.”
It was a watershed moment for her. Finally-- practical theology in the present tense. The cup holding her latte finally reached her lips. It was an image of drinking more than just a caffeinated beverage. The gateway from her mind to her heart had been opened. Her soul was flooded with what a personal relationship with God looks like—vividly, and at great cost.
Embracing the truth of a thing doesn't mean that there is instant adjustments or applications. Forgiveness is a very difficult destination, but it's the difficulty that makes it great. Much like the liquid result which finally finds its way into the cardboard cups we hold, the refinement of forgiveness is a tedious process, attained by thorough grinding and extreme heat. She's enduring the process to attain the result. I am very confident of her commitment to do so. "He who is forgiven much, loves much." Such is the promise to which she clings.
Deep Java 2
Andree also loves coffee. The following year, Andree Gates from Louisiana
As a result, I heard about Andree long before I ever saw her. Men ran into doors—walked upright into fountains—fell into ditches trying to behold her. They blubbered and stuttered through a simple “Hello.” I listened to these stories of shock and awe with constant amusement. We finally met in the laundry/exercise room of Lincoln Hall—an old YWCA converted into a male dorm. The rustic exercise room and laundry were combined, and women students could use the facilities as well as men. I was trying to wash 5 cubic feet of bedspread in 3 cubic feet of washing machine. My language was not appropriate but it caught Andree’s attention. She was attempting to lift dumb-bells—and I felt like the largest one!
Weeks went by until I finally got the nerve to ask her out. “Whadya wanna do?”, I asked. “Let’s go for coffee”, she said. We went to a French bakery sort of establishment with several choices of coffee. Much fancier than what I grown accustomed to with Tim. We sat in wooden chairs at a small farm table and we talked. We talked a lot. And we went back again and again. It felt like the first time in my adult life that I truly had a friend who was a woman. We talked about absolute truth, and our callings to ministry. She was on her way toFrance Paris Kentucky
We would laugh too. A couple of times I remember even crying with her. We’d sip coffee out of fine china cups, and spread marmalade onto French bread. I learned what a baguette was, and the simple delicacy of fresh butter. I learned that coffee and cocoa beans are closely related—and should be kept so!! My life was enriched, and my soul expanded, from those dates inside a As a result, I heard about Andree long before I ever saw her. Men ran into doors—walked upright into fountains—fell into ditches trying to behold her. They blubbered and stuttered through a simple “Hello.” I listened to these stories of shock and awe with constant amusement. We finally met in the laundry/exercise room of Lincoln Hall—an old YWCA converted into a male dorm. The rustic exercise room and laundry were combined, and women students could use the facilities as well as men. I was trying to wash 5 cubic feet of bedspread in 3 cubic feet of washing machine. My language was not appropriate but it caught Andree’s attention. She was attempting to lift dumb-bells—and I felt like the largest one!
Weeks went by until I finally got the nerve to ask her out. “Whadya wanna do?”, I asked. “Let’s go for coffee”, she said. We went to a French bakery sort of establishment with several choices of coffee. Much fancier than what I grown accustomed to with Tim. We sat in wooden chairs at a small farm table and we talked. We talked a lot. And we went back again and again. It felt like the first time in my adult life that I truly had a friend who was a woman. We talked about absolute truth, and our callings to ministry. She was on her way to
I hear that Andree still enjoys coffee very much. She should anyway—for several years now I have made it for her every morning at
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