We've Got to Do Better

It's early, sitting out here on my newly screened deck, sipping coffee on what promises to be a warm, summer day.  I'm 50 now, and in a matter of weeks both my sons will be off to college, leaving us with our first taste of the empty nest.  It is an exciting time, and certainly promises to be a new experience.  And of course, being who I am, I find myself assessing the job we've done as parents, hoping and praying that we have done enough to shape and mold our children in a manner that prepares them for this crazy, mixed up world.  I think we've done okay, but there are many unknowns out there.  I will probably worry, but I know I will definitely pray for them daily.

Recently, I was forwarded an article on Vox about the "phenomenon" of what the writer calls "influencer burnout".  I'll quote only part of it (but do read the whole thing):

What’s happening to influencers is a microcosm of what’s happening to everyone.  … [K]ids who write increasingly about their anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation, kids who appear in his office “sad in a way they cannot explain, desperate for something they don’t know how to have."

Several of them … dropped out to move to LA to chase the influencer dream for themselves, hoping to become famous in the same way all the other kids got famous: By getting their face to appear on millions of other people’s screens. Left unsaid is what happens when they do win the TikTok lottery, and how the unexplainable sadness doesn’t really go away. 

The article goes on to talk about the need to establish mechanisms that will provide such "influencers" counseling, care, and community.  Let me say this so that I am perfectly clear:  I do not, nor will I ever, condemn these lost souls.  Because if nothing else, they are indeed lost.  As Solomon wrote:  "I have seen everything that is done under the sun, and behold, all is vanity and a striving after the wind." (Ecclesiastes 1:14).  It's Pinocchio on Pleasure Island; it's Percy Jackson in the casino; it's District 1 in PamEm.  An "influencer's" pursuit of vanity, of perceived relevance, can only empty the soul in the long run.  Young people should not arrive at such a place of burnout or despair so soon in their young lives, so dependent on the perceived acceptance and adulation of others.  They need more than help, they need rescue. 

Is this what a "lost generation" looks like?  At the great risk of sounding judgmental, I must seriously ask, what could their home life have been like - home being whatever environment these kids grow up in - that such emptiness results in this rabid pursuit of the white rabbit of "online relevance"?  Yes, we all have at some level gone through an identity crisis of sorts during our adolescence - some more than others willing to do almost anything to fit in.  But this "influencer" phenomenon just takes it to a whole other level of neurosis.  And the depravity of a whole industry designed around exploiting insecurity.

And powerlessly, helplessly, I sit here and drink my coffee, wondering what can possibly be done to redeem this moment in time, this season so seemingly devoid of wisdom.  I pray, because it burdens me.  Again, I will not condemn these lost souls.  But as a dad, for my generation, a measure of conviction is in order - by looking in the mirror, by looking around with clear eyes - and recognizing that some way, some how, we've got to do better.

A Quiet Plea

For some time now, I have labored to find my voice. No, that's not quite right. Labor implies a level of effort resulting in a visible outcome - a product if you will. It may be more accurate to say that I've been living in a stunned silence over the past many years, observing the increasing vitriol and Pharisee-ism on ready display in our ever-increasing modes of social interaction. To publicly offer an observation, even in the interest of true inquiry, is to unleash a flood of presupposition that quickly renders the attempt at dialogue unfruitful and unpalatable. This, even among "friends."

 

I remember many a spirited discussion, in a once blue-couched room in a building near a campus I love, where issues of politics and war, religion and theology, love and sin, scandal and football were hotly contested. And yet, in the aftermath, almost without fail we would walk out en masse for chicken fingers or a slice or two at a local pizza buffet, our fellowship and camaraderie never truly threatened. Perhaps that's too rosy a picture, but nevertheless it generally rings true to my recollection.

 

As a believer, as one who believes that Jesus Christ died for my sins and rose again to sit at the right hand of the Almighty, I find myself wrestling with the question of how to speak into this age - or if I even should. How does one go about being a "peacemaker" where even the most mundane of issues turns into a rhetorical battlefield and everyone nearby a self-styled knights-polemic? How does the Church speak into this age where few lend any credence to its once-perceived authority, especially given that its members wield the same weapons against one another daily, in full public display?

 

Here's what I know, and what I believe. You and I are not going to agree on every facet of policy or politics, nor on intricate matters of theology and denominational order, nor on a host of other issues. We're just not. Does that make us adversaries? Does that make us enemies? I submit that if we succumb to such an outcome, we thus succumb to the decadent spirit of the age, rather than the Spirit of the Living God.

 

There is a hymn from my childhood that begins, "Blest be the tie that binds / our hearts in Christian love; the fellowship of kindred minds / is like to that above." Would that we be less passive and more active in this. Can we not commit to being the agents of this blessing, caretakers of this holy bond without regard to whether our paths diverge for a time, or whether we find ourselves with opposite views of one or more issues of the day, the circumstances of which are bound to change tomorrow?

 

I harbor few illusions, but I still choose to hope. I know I am deeply flawed, but perhaps even a flawed messenger is capable of speaking truth. To borrow from a somewhat more contemporary verse, "Let it begin with me." Amen.

Closing Thoughts on 2020

This year is not what I expected it to be.  Oh, I knew it would be busy, but little did I expect it would be crazy-busy.  Hopes for any sort of balance, graced with purposeful contemplation and writing, went out the window pretty quickly.  As they say, life comes at you fast, and the demands of the moment easily elevate the "have-to's" ahead of the "want-to's".  As one who believes that a little solitude and reflection is essential to one's mental and spiritual well-being, it seems there has been precious little of that in the past 12 months, so please pardon me if this first paragraph is a bit self-indulgent.  Introductions are not always easy to write.

 

Charles M. Schulz (of Peanuts fame) once wrote:  "It's hard to convince people when you're just staring out the window that you're doing your hardest work of the day."  I entered 2020 with high hopes to start developing the framework of a book, but the space for necessary contemplation never seemed to materialize.  Sure, there have been brief, stolen moments, followed by flashes of inspiration which I capture any way I can, often by using my phone to take a quick picture of an interesting paragraph in a book I'm reading, followed by typing up a bubble of thought as a draft email to myself.  The intent of course, is to further develop these thoughts into what Washington Irving might call a "sketch".  But then the current of events rips me away, and I never get back to "staring out the window" or developing the thoughts that come.

 

It's not like there hasn't been source material this year.  We've had a runaway virus, lockdowns, social, racial, and political strife, and an accelerating disintegration of confidence in our institutions.  The spirit of division runs rampant, and the weapon of choice is the broad brush.  I have chosen to avoid writing on such specific topics, not because I lack for opinion, but because I have learned over the years that our ability to see and hear others clearly is often diminished in the white hot passions of the moment. 

 

In all my writing and teaching over the years, my one interest was to create the conditions by which the hearer or reader would think, examine, and perhaps discover for themselves a new understanding.  My objective is not to persuade anyone to my point of view, but rather to reveal that there are other points of view.  It is up to the other to consider and determine for themselves what they think, what they believe.  It is the story of my own faith journey - I don't need to persuade anyone that the Gospel is true, I just need to share it and model it, and let the Holy Spirit handle the revelation. 

 

For me, the "standoff" approach described above is becoming all the more critical as the tribal mentality rages.  I have come to believe that "presupposition" is the bane of human interaction in the digital age.  It goes beyond just having a worldview - it is me, bringing to bear that perspective, with all its assumptions and biases, to my interactions with others.  Likewise, it is others, doing the same in their interactions with me.  But too often, rather than dialogue and engagement, we get a battle in which, as stated above, the weapon of choice is the broad brush. 

 

I don't mind disagreements, I really don't, because I know I have my own presuppositions that deserve to be challenged.  What I do mind is the damage we permit to our relationships and to our witness.  In a year when in truth we have needed one another more than ever, it seems we have chosen to not merely accept division, but to encourage it.  I'm not suggesting we should pursue a false unity - far from it.  But I do think a greater measure of grace and humility is warranted, such that we don't allow a difference of opinion to be elevated to the epochal event we so often make it to be. 

 

2020 has been a difficult year, and as I write this day, I anticipate 2021 to reflect a continuation of that trend - more difficult days are ahead, this we know.  But I remain hopeful that we can and will persevere, understanding that perseverance is more than survival - it is a labor of love, sacrifice, and prayer.  Show us the way, oh Lord, we pray.  Amen.

Thought-Bubbles, Sketches, and Words Yet Unwritten

In Pixar's Ratatouille, the great Peter O'Toole voiced the character of Anton Ego, a food critic who, toward the end of the movie, had this to say about his nemesis, Chef Gusteau:

"In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau's famous motto, "Anyone can cook." But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist; but a great artist *can* come from *anywhere*."

When I was younger, having realized that writing was to be central to nearly every endeavor I would ever pursue, I fell into the common notion that "I should write a book."  So common, and so cliché.  In those days before the internet, I labored to get my hands on those old "How to Get Published" books that contained advice and lists upon lists of publishers.  Of course, I had no idea what to write about, and the thought became intimidating, so I put it away.

Of course, trying to extend Anton Ego's perspective into this realm is an imperfect application.  Maybe not just anyone can write a book, but today, where self-publishing in the digital age puts lie to the notion that authorship is restricted in any way, fashion, or form, the question turns to not whether anyone can write a book, but whether anyone can write a book that others might actually read and enjoy.

I still would like to write a book, but until recently, I have struggled with the form it might take.  While I'm not above the employment of embellishment to relate an experience, the experience itself must be essentially true.  I am incapable of creating a pure work of fiction, as all my imaginings are derivative.  Similarly, there is simply no topic or area of interest that so holds me, or for which I possess any singular knowledge, that would enable me to produce a unique work of non-fiction or composition.  Blogging worked for a long time, allowing for the production of short, topical utterings that for a while fulfilled my compulsion to write.  I write about things that strike my fancy in the moment, things that pass through my mind like little thought-bubbles that entertain and amuse me, things that I feel need to be said and thus incumbent for me to say them.

It wasn't until I began to read Washington Irving's The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent., in which his stories of "Rip Van Winkle" and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" appear, that a possible framework presented itself.  From what I've read, compilations of essays are not looked upon favorably by publishers, unless thematic or memoirs of a particular bent.  I don't know that I care so much about publishers.  But the concept of sketches appeals to me, and with the right organization and flavor, maybe this fleeting notion of legitimate authorship might not be so fleeting.  I cannot help but be encouraged, and even stimulated, by this quote from Irving at the end of the sketch called "The Christmas Dinner":

"Methinks I hear the questions asked by my graver readers:  'To what purpose is all this - how is the world to be made wiser by this talk?'  Alas! Is there not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the world?  And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens laboring for its improvement? - It is so much pleasanter to please than to instruct - to play the companion rather than the preceptor.

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw into the mass of knowledge; or how am I sure that my sagest deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others?  But in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my own disappointment.  If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow; if I can now and then penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow-beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain."

Maybe there's hope for me yet, this notion of writing a book, or at least compiling one.  In the meantime, I will simply enjoy the exercise, and entertain myself in blowing thought-bubbles and writing sketches.  And if anyone happens to read and enjoy them as well, then "surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain."

The Place Once Called Home

After nine, or not quite ten hours, Wisconsin and Minnesota were behind me, as was the 70-odd miles of open landscape running from Fargo to Grand Forks. The day was remarkably cool for early June, with the kind of overcast sky that teases the sun but never quite enough to let any but the palest of rays reach the ground. A steady wind from the northern reaches buffeted my face as I stepped out of the hotel this late Friday afternoon. The gathering was the next day, and with no events planned for the evening, I made my way back to the truck, engine still quite warm from the day’s work.

Within minutes I was headed west, to a little place 20 miles away and 33 years in the past. A place that was, for a while, called home. Within my heart, there was a quickening and a hesitation, that confounding tension that sometimes arises between the dueling senses of uncertainty and adventure.

Driving down roads such as these, considering the times and one’s state of mind, can be disconcerting. For as the landscape glides by, and as the trees, homes, and an occasional business or storefront comes into view, there begins a merger of memory with the now. You see these features, at once familiar and alien, not only as they are, but increasingly as they once were, creating within the experience a poignant sense of double vision. Two universes coming together into view, stealing away any words that may form in your mind or on your tongue, for the moment – and its sensation – crosses over into the surreal.

You may think this description extravagant and overstated, and that would be your right. But we all have these moments of duality that are sensed deep within, moments that no manner of prose or elocution could ever hope to express. This was one of those moments, a dimensional view that upsets the fragile foundation that is our perception of our world – of my world. Still, both the moment and the memory are real. The only thing alien here is me.

This sense of time and duality only intensified as I pulled to a stop just past the post office, the crunch of the gravel beneath my tires kicking up a cloud of dust quickly taken away by the steady breeze. As I put my feet on the ground, and survey the scene, past and present at once began to blur my vision.

The little store, or maybe it was a bar, has been replaced by an empty lot, as has the multiple-dwelling housing unit across from it.

The old schoolhouse, long-abandoned even when this was home, still stands, a little worse for wear than that recalled from memory.

The railroad line has long since closed, iron and ties pulled up and harvested for other use. The abandoned grain elevator has been stripped of its exterior, and it seems to me there is yet more there to salvage. It stands as a forlorn reminder this place had a purpose once, perhaps not grand, but a function just the same.

Walking down the main stretch, the gravel crunching beneath my feet, the remembrances accost me full force. Winter scenes of mountainous snow drifts, ice-filled ditches that serving as a proving ground for boys and their bikes, river walks, and northern lights. Summers and flies, and a job cutting grass on half-a-dozen properties for a pittance in spending cash. Endless fields of wheat, sometimes soybean, sometimes corn, often fallow. Finding things to do in a place where there wasn’t anything to do, and managing to get by and even have fun sometimes.

And the little house, with two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room. Sharing a room with my little brother. The garage we had built, a driveway pad we poured, a basketball goal. At once, I see it as it was, which made the present state of things so much harder to comprehend. For a while the structures still stand and the grass is roughly hewn, the house that was once my home lies abandoned, overgrown, unlivable. And somehow, smaller. A wave of melancholy comes over me, threatening to pull me out to a gray, empty sea. But just then a dog barks, and the driver of a Ford F-250 Super Duty waves as he drives by, friendly but wary of this stranger standing in the road. There is still life here, families getting by, finding things to do in a place there’s not much to do. Still battling the dual images, I turn back the way I came, taking in everything as it was and everything as it is, for later contemplation and retrospection.

At some point, and in our own way, we must come to terms with the passage of time and its impact upon us. All the wisdom and all the sayings about these days of our lives, so often trivialized, are – in those quiet moments of unexpected revelation – are nevertheless seriously profound. What was, what is, what is to come – sometimes just out of range of view, sometimes strikingly clear and yet unsettling.

We can despair, and many do. But perhaps the better course is simply to acknowledge our helplessness in the face of time, and to redeem whatever we can of its passage. Celebrate the joys, lament the sorrows, and respect the struggle and even the pain. But above all, embrace with gratitude and wonder the grace that we’ve been given to live this life. It means something. It means everything.

The present beckons, and tomorrow’s gathering at the school has an anticipation all its own. With the town behind me now, I pull out onto the asphalt, leaving the gravel and dust behind. The memories, and perhaps a greater appreciation of the time, these I take with me. And that is good.

The Drive

When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find in himself a good and sufficient reason for going. This to the practical bum is not difficult. He has a built-in garden of reasons to choose from. Next he must plan his trip in time and space, choose a direction and a destination. And last he must implement the journey. How to go, what to take, how long to stay. This part of the process is invariable and immortal. - John Steinbeck, "Travels with Charley"

At last, a solo road trip. Destination, purpose, route - all planned out and ready for the undertaking. I said my goodbyes, filled the tank, and pointed the nose of my truck to the north, toward a gathering 33 years in the making. Those first few hours of that first day I succumbed to the impulse to get away, to put as much distance between me and my starting point, reasoning that the further away from the familiar I was, the sooner I could begin to relax and settle into the journey.

Driving has always been therapeutic for me, if not always pragmatic. From the day I got my license, and the job that paid just enough to put gas in my car, behind the wheel was my sanctuary. Each night after closing up shop at the theater, I'd get in the car and drive up and down the main drag, through the McDonald's drive thru once or twice, and round the circuit on the backroads before finally heading home. Windows down, music blaring, the occasional illicit cigarette, it was all part of the routine. Whatever chaos might have been going on in my teenage self, the road was my refuge.

The miles passed by, long stretches where the cognitive engine that so regularly animates me finally took a break, allowing me to simply drive with nothing to distract save the ambient noise of the road and the minor irritation of others with whom I had to share the trail. No talking, no radio, minimal musing - just the drive.

This is what I craved, what finally pushed me to make this trip - five solid driving days and 2600 miles of relative silence and psychological rest. Of course, the mind and the spirit are not always cooperative. Finally given the space and peace to process, the subconscious went to work, offering up to my greater awareness things I had forgotten, problems which needed my attention and analysis, options which required my consideration.

And what do people think of when they drive? On short trips perhaps of arrival at a destination or memory of events at the place of departure. But there is left, particularly on very long trips, a large area for daydreaming or even, God help us, for thought. No one can know what another does in that area. - John Steinbeck, ibid.

Unbidden, I began to ruminate. Ruminate is quite the interesting word. It means to turn things over in your mind, to "chew the cud" as it were. A ruminant, such as a cow, chews that which it regurgitates from its rumen, or its first stomach. A necessary process, but clearly not a very pleasant one. Still, in the solitude of my truck, and the flattening of the landscape flying by outside my window, I allowed my psyche the space it was demanding.

So many things, taken one at a time and yet haphazard. This reunion, opening a long-closed chapter of a tumultuous time - filled me with anticipation and apprehension. My kids - one home from college for the summer, soon to depart again - is he on the right path, is he happy, have I done everything I can to help him including giving him the space to discover, the independence to live his own life? The other kid, newly licensed, just starting to come out of a period of teenage angst (or is he), what does he need, what boundaries can be relaxed, which ones must yet hold? My marriage - am I doing all I can as a husband, where am I falling short, what should I be doing that I am not doing today? The empty nest is just a couple years away, are we prepared relationally for that? My job, my work: a company I helped start, people with whom I've worked for almost 17 years, do I still believe in what we're doing, the direction we're going? These feelings of marginalization and lower value, the sense of an atrophying skill set - is it time to move on, search for other opportunities? What opportunities? The same, or something altogether different? Which is more important, my sense of purpose and fulfillment, or the security of the present and the ability to provide for my family? Is that even a binary choice? And after the reunion, on the road for home, trying to sort out an experience that was both surprisingly delightful and yet deeply melancholy. What a mess the mind can be when left to its own devices.

Round and round it goes, and one would think that my escape to solitude was an abject failure. Just the opposite is true. I need the quiet and the space and the time to work these things out. Time: the all-important resource that one cannot "make". One can choose to spend it various and sundry ways, but its creation, its invention, is beyond the scope of man. Did I stumble upon any answers? No, not really. But just the act of picking up each piece of my life and examining it from various angles provided its own benefit - more knowledge, more understanding, maybe a little less fear. And between each, a momentary return to the mindless passing of the miles.

On the fifth and final day, on the home stretch so to speak, I found that same anticipation and apprehension, this time focused not on the journey to the past, but the return to the present. Looking forward to being home with my family, not so much the rest of it, and still processing the results of the past few days and the changed landscape of my childhood. But without question, I found myself in a better place emotionally and spiritually, as a result of the time away. Of course, three months back in the real world has allowed the clutter to pile up once again, making me already wistful for another drive. Such is life, I suppose.

But when the opportunity presents itself, I'll be ready. Because, in the end, it'll be another chance to drive. To just drive.

Road Trip to Yesteryear: Deciding to Go

Several months ago, virtually and out of the blue, I received an invitation to a reunion from a high school classmate with whom I did not graduate. It was quite unexpected (since I left after the 9th grade), but surprisingly enough, I found myself intrigued. It is not my custom to reopen closed chapters in my life, but in the months since receiving the invitation, I have warmed to the idea. Not in the least because such a journey would give me the opportunity to visit a place I never expected to see again.

There is a danger in the going, however. The image that I have, real or fantasy, may be lost or irrevocably altered. The rich and fertile ground of memory, perception, and impression that so indelibly mark my understanding of things - particularly my past - may be revealed as veneer, unsubstantiated, phony. To lose the mystery, to have it revealed or to be understood as something else entirely, could poison the well that feeds what remains of my imagination.

Aside: I'm not a writer, but I often wish I were. I relish the exercise of formulating a thought and laboring to fashion it in a manner that makes a concept accessible to others. Yet bridging the gap between formulations that are essentially disposable to those that weave vibrant tapestries of expression is no small feat, and often beyond my reach. I still endeavor to find ways to express that which, in hindsight, may better remain unexpressed. To contemplate the mystery without seeking its naked reveal. To appreciate that which cannot or should not be reduced by the application of language. And while this probably makes sense to no one but me, trust me when I say that I understand the tension.

On the other hand, what I find on this journey might very well reinforce, reinvigorate, and refresh that stagnant wellspring within me. Rather than rip the veneer, it may in fact enhance and deepen the mystery and wonder of it all. New impressions may be formed that indelibly mark my understanding, impressions that may bring something altogether different and revealing, a via positiva to go with the via negativa.

In the end, I have decided to go. Decided to reopen a chapter long closed, motivated by … curiosity. To see the places and people I last saw in 1986, and to learn what's become of them. You may think it silly of me, and accuse me of drastically overthinking and over(psycho)analyzing a simple high school reunion - and you would probably be right. Nevertheless, in my defense, I'd wager all of us have places and times in our lives that, given the chance to return, the idea would give us pause. What you have read is a product of my "pause". A mere expression of one's self contemplating the mark of time - my time, our time.

Lord willing, this road trip will serve as both a literal and figurative journey: one outward, one inward, yet the same. We need such journeys, each of us. What may be found remains to be seen, or perhaps, unseen. Chasing after the wind may prove to be meaningless, but there remains yet the possibility of surprise. And with it, hope.

If nothing else, of course, I will relish the solitude of a 2600-mile round trip on the road. My middle age body may protest, but my spirit surely won't. Because the best parts of a solo road trip are simply: solo, road, and trip.

Doldrums

It is painfully clear to me, as I'm sure it is to anyone else who happens to stumble upon this site, not much has been happening here the past few years. Sure, there's a post or two, but by and large this blog has become dormant.

Life happens. I've been doing more reading that writing; more living than reflecting; more working than well, than anything else. The writing muscle has atrophied, and will require some "physical therapy" to restore to proper working order.

I have some question as to what form that should take. Do I simply resume where I left off, writing about anything that fancies me in the moment, as this blog more or less represents? Or do I resurrect and refresh writings two decades old, back when devotional material and Bible study materials were my primary output?

I actually have age-old friends who think I should write a book. I cannot help but to chuckle at that idea, if for no other reason than I have nothing about which to write that could fill such a format. A collection of musings and life experiences of a man in his late-40's who is no more or less than anyone else? To be fair, I have considered it - I actually would like to write a book someday (and modern self-publishing in the internet age makes it possible) - but one must have a subject, a purpose, and a direction. At present, I lack all three.

Ah well. It's a cool morning, and pollen is in the air. I have brush on the back line that needs going-after, if I can get the billy goat started. Work calls.

Lasting Legacy

"It is a wise man who plants a tree under the shade of which he knows he will never sit." -- Unknown

I came across the above quote in an article published years ago by ESPN magazine. I've tried to hunt down its origins, but I've only found non-authoritative sources suggesting that it comes from a Greek proverb.

Anyhow. Lately, I've been lamenting just how rare this idea seems to have become. Sure, we hear talk of legacy, but nearly always the focus is on the one leaving it (to their glory), rather than the thing itself and those who would be its true beneficiaries. We don't seem to plan or build for the future so much as we strive and scheme for ourselves in the now. As an individual, a family, a neighborhood, a community, a country, a world: it's all about the now. This lament has led me to the following observations:

• For all our progress, for all our capability and technological prowess and prosperity, yet in truth we are spinning our wheels, propelling ourselves not forward but downward, further encasing ourselves in the muck - entrenched, entrapped, hopelessly mired in that which we have wrought.

• Victory 'by any means necessary' is never 'just', nor will its reward ever be 'justice'. The society or tribe that places winning over the rule of law, moral or legal, is no lover of justice, but rather the unwitting concubine of chaos.

• There are no rules, except those by which we agree to play. Where there is no such agreement, no rule stands; only chaos and tyranny.

Undoubtedly, these are debatable, and in some extreme contexts perhaps even refuted. Sometimes, it is hard to hold the defeatist impulse at bay ("everything is meaningless", so to speak). I frequently have to will myself to remember that all is not lost, though it seems we are losing. And even if we are losing, to believe we might yet gain. The cost will be great, but hope, and the thing hoped for, is greater.

It comes back to a sacrificial legacy, looking beyond the now (without neglecting it) to a future unwritten. What values, what faith, what freedom, what ideals am I passing down to my children and to those within my circle? What can I bequeath, figuratively and literally, to the generations that come, and should I even care? (Yes, I should). Why? Because the universe tends toward disorder, and it takes focused, controlled energy to counter that disorder. It does not matter whether that universe is an individual, a family, a neighborhood, a community, a country, a world. We can embrace defeatism, or we can plant the proverbial seeds, not so much for ourselves, but for our progeny.

In the end, I realize there are few things I can truly do, and even fewer that I can control. Best to do what I can, and leave that which I cannot to God. Perhaps, in the process the seed will take on a life that bears fruit in its season, and maybe, just maybe, makes a lasting difference (John 15:16).

On the eve of a New Year, sobering thoughts. And the realization that something needs to change, if only in me.

What to Do with Old Class Notes?

I am not a pack rat. The periodic purge has never been a cause of angst for me. I prefer to travel light, and whether this is due to my upbringing in a military family or the byproduct of having my belongings strewn across barren acreage in the aftermath of a storm – “things” just don’t have a great hold on me. I keep that which has value to me, be it sentimental or useful for a future purpose, but it is no great trauma to let stuff go that meet neither of these criteria.

Virtuous words, maybe, but full of feigned vainglory. For I daresay that I must confess an area of weakness that undermines my claim: the archaic relics of my college education.

My remaining textbooks are non-negotiable. One, because they are “books”, and I don’t get rid of books. Two, each represents a not-insignificant financial investment, and the severely depreciated resale value limits the incentive. It does not matter that some have been unopened and unused in 25 years. It does not matter that a couple of them have faithfully served my needs as a makeshift monitor stand for the last 10 years. I’m keeping the books.

The problem, alas, are the binders and binders of class notes (queue Romney jokes here), spanning a variety of math and engineering courses, labs, and even those silly business and humanities courses they require to ensure each engineering student leaves the university with a “well-rounded” education. Most contain that wonderful, green-shaded engineering paper, now faded along with the mechanical pencil scratchings of a bygone era. I have notes for MH420, EE475, and EE530, containing countless complicated formulas I clearly used to know, but are nothing but mere hieroglyphics at this point. It is just further proof that I was once far smarter than I am now. I have copies of marked up homework and tests (thank goodness for scaled grades). Heh. A stray phone bill – I wonder if I ever paid that? Here’s a piece of paper with a phone number – a forgotten girl? No, probably just some dude wanting study help. A section of the school newspaper, announcing the resignation of Coach Dye – hm, I didn’t know I had kept that. Finally, a slip of paper with a small love note from the girl who remains my beloved bride to this day. That one brought a smile.

Flipping through these binders, a few have awakened memories. But with most, I find the dullness of a past so long forgotten that it seems alien, with words and scribbles that were seemingly produced by someone else entirely. It is kind of disconcerting. But enough. To the matter at hand: what value do these pages upon pages of Fourier transforms and differential equations hold? What value do these digital control and microelectronic circuit designs have for me at a time when I find myself doing less and less true engineering and more and more management of those who do? Am I ever going to do this stuff in real life again? Can I bear to toss them into the trash bin?

Ah, the mid-life naval gazing over decades-old class notes! No sense wasting any more of my time (or yours). The decision is made. I’m still an engineer, and the direction on my bias is set to “practical”. On with it, then.

5 Years: A Final Look Back

It is a testament to the passage of time and immeasurable grace that I find myself almost reluctant to pen this retrospective. Not because it isn't worth looking back, but rather because I'm not sure how much I need to anymore. A new normal is now fully established, a normal that is arguably better than it was before. But it is for this reason, perhaps, that I should look back, so that I do not fail to appreciate the journey that brought us here.

March 2, 2012. The day of our tornado.

Most of our community's collective memory centers around other storms. There was a horrific tornado in 1989. Then there is the woebegone neighborhood known as Anderson Hills, hit at least three times since 1995. And more recently, the major tornadic outbreak of April 27, 2011 that left hundreds across the state dead and all of us around here in the dark for a solid week. But the one usually not remembered is the one that hit too close to home. A direct hit, actually.

It was a Friday morning. The boys were at school, my wife and I at work at our respective employers. The day was very warm and muggy, somewhat unusual for an early March morning. There may have been a weather watch, of that I'm not sure. But there were a couple of storms about, and one cell in particular had my attention as I tracked it on internet radar. Various reports were coming in, and a phone call from my brother-in-law (who was on his way to work) confirmed that it looked pretty serious. It wasn’t long before a spotter reported a funnel cloud on the ground, and the projected track was taking the storm on a direct path to my neighborhood. I knew my immediate family was safely out of the way, but my in-laws live in the same area, and I found myself desperately praying that the cell would weaken or shift direction.

Suddenly, everything turned surreal. We have internet voice mail, and around 10:15, I got an email with a hurried, cryptic message from our next door neighbor: "… it got your house. Wait, are you there? Hello?" My first thought was simply that a tree had crashed through the house (we had a lot of trees). I called my wife, who had moments earlier gotten a text notification from our alarm system, an error indicating that the basement door had been opened. Our initial conclusion was that changes in air pressure caused the basement door to bulge and break the signal. At least, that is what we were hoping. Not knowing what to expect, but knowing that I needed to know, I left work and took off for home.

I don't remember what I was thinking on the drive home. There was another phone call from my brother-in-law, who was en route to the area. As I approached my neighborhood, a feeling of dread began to settle in. Dozens of trees were strewn across the road, and there was no immediate access to the area. I parked the car next to a block house (incidentally parking next to my brother-in-law), and ran up the hill into the war zone. Several of my neighbors were outside, already cleaning up, in shock, taking stock. Everyone seemed okay, for which I was very grateful. I asked one in particular how they fared, and the response was "Better than what happened in the cul-de-sac up there." My breath caught for a moment, but then I steeled myself and walked toward my street. I stopped at my in-laws, who were deeply shaken but okay. From there, I made my way to where my home once stood.

Standing over the rubble, I remember feeling strangely calm. Perhaps it was some level of shock, evidenced by the fact that in my report to my wife, I kept saying "the house was completely gone", creating a false picture. In fact, we salvaged a good deal more than I would ever have expected, looking at the destruction. But in a larger sense, I also knew that my Father in Heaven had a very tight hold on me right in that moment. For I knew, even in the moment, that it was just a house. My treasures, the people I love more than anyone in the world, were alive and safe. Ours was the only house in the neighborhood that was destroyed, and no one was home when it happened. Many of my neighbors were taking cover inside their homes when the tornado came through, and every one of them was safe. We had lost nothing that could not be replaced, and we would recover.

For the next week, it was a massive salvage operation. Slowly and steadily, we picked through every corner of the pile, pulling books, computers, files, and more. We found clothes and pictures, covered in drywall dust and insulation, but salvageable. We climbed through the collapsed kitchen to retrieve whatever wasn’t broken (excepting a memorable moment of fatalistic whimsy, in which my brother-in-law and I took turns hurling a set of old Corelle dishes down the hill like Frisbees). We rented storage units and filled them to the brim (in the end, even most of this would be hauled to the dump). We rented a house, and did everything possible to keep the boys in a normal routine (they did not miss any school). We were surrounded by people - family, friends from work, church, school, Scouts, and more, all of whom came alongside us in those first weeks. That memory, being the recipient of such great grace, is one memory I will always, always treasure. In fact, I want to be sure that if I hold on to anything, it is that experience of God's loving hand through the kindnesses of others.

That isn't to say it wasn't difficult or draining. Once we had picked through everything, it was time to clear the property. I remember well dealing with the emotional emptiness that people say so often follows traumatic experiences. Some days, it was very hard to soldier through. But we weren't really alone, no matter how we felt sometimes, and we did come through it.

I could go on, I suppose. But I am mindful that this was supposed to be a quick look back. With that, and knowing that I have chronicled our experiences with this storm and others before on this blog, and I suppose it would probably just be easier to point you, the reader, to these posts to read at your leisure. So let me list them here, after which I'll get on with my closing thoughts.

"When the Lights Can't Come Back On"
"One Year Later, Or Last Month"
"The Future Remains Unwritten"
"One Year"

The Rebuild Process (Chase Manor 2.0)

There's more of course, just scan any of my posts March - August 2012. But moving on now, to the present. Nearly four years have passed since we moved into the rebuild. It was certainly disorienting at first, and even a year after moving in, it was weird. Today, I still catch myself looking in cabinets for things that we no longer have, or looking for them in places where they would have been in the old house, instead of where they are now. Fortunately, this is happening less often, but it still happens. It is the ultimate cliché, I know, but life really has moved on. The boys are older and thriving. We are older, working as hard as ever for our respective employers, going to church, and simply trying to keep up with the pace of life. I walk around the house and the yard, and as always, marvel at the number of projects still on my to-do list. The scars from the storm still mark our property, and to an extent our hearts. But they are healing, and they are not holding us back in any way.

Yes, we lost much. But 5 years later, there is no question in my mind: we have gained more. The worst did not happen, and to compare our experience with those who have lost so much more than a house would be a grave disservice. To this day, I remain humbled by the grace and mercy that has been extended to me and my family by my Father in Heaven. And if ever I should fail to remember this, I merely have to walk outside and turn my eyes to the east, to the rising sun. I testify to this simple truth: if not for the storm, I would not have the view I have today - literally, and spiritually. His mercies are truly new, every morning.

Five years. The more I dwell, the more I remember. But - and I cannot say this enough – I will (and must) be intentional about remembering the love and the grace we have received, and that we experience to this day. And most of all, I choose to look forward to the new day, where hope rises and affords the possibility of joy, of new life, of new dreams. For there is still more life ahead to be lived and to be embraced, whatever may come.

It's All Part of the Process

Quietly, the sun rises over the eastern horizon,
The cold dark expanse advances and recedes
Along the mist covered sands.
Off in the distance
Seabirds cry out
As they begin their morning hunt.
The ocean breeze carries their sound to me,
And makes me shiver.
I stand there, alone in my thoughts
Trying to shake off the effects
Of another sleepless night,
Trying to capture that new,
Waking feeling that comes with
Each new day.

Trying, yet in vain,
For the feeling once again,

… eludes me.

I wrote the poem above almost 29 years ago, as a teenager feeling a little lost in the world. I have often observed that I have an old soul laced with melancholy, and looking back on those words I find it hard to deny. And here I am, all these years later, with a penchant for watching the sun rise over the hills and fields behind my house, feeling almost exactly the same way. I have so many wonderful blessings I can count: a loving, stable family, a nice home, a good church, and a job that while consuming enables me to take care of my family. We've had our share of troubles: loss of home, car accidents, health scares, but we've managed to do okay through it all. I really have absolutely nothing to complain about. I have been most fortunate.

And yet.

I watch the sun come up in all its glory, with a light breeze inviting the steam from my coffee to spiral away, and in the undeniably peaceful moment, I still find myself feeling a little lost in the world. I'm not certain where I'm headed, if in fact I am heading any particular direction. I've never been an overly driven person, and have only fleeting experiences with the kind of passion that motivates one to go beyond and immerse themselves into any particular thing. Hobbies? No, not really. Just haven't really found one that energizes me in any particular way.

None of this is uncommon to a man my age, I know this. Yet that knowledge does little to assuage the disorientation I feel at certain times. In Philippians 4:12-13, the Apostle Paul speaks of contentment, and the truth that such peace can be found in any circumstances through Jesus Christ. I've known contentment, even in some very hard circumstances. Being content, of course, is a state of the mind, a state of the heart. As such, that sense of contentment is subject to the meanderings of mood and the fickleness of feelings. But this idea of contentment has a cousin: the concept of fulfillment. Scriptures are a little less clear on the matter of fulfillment. But as illustrated by James 1:2-4, one can infer that fulfillment (becoming "mature and complete, lacking in nothing") is in fact a process. We all yearn to be "whole", and we are all at times very painfully aware that we are not. Oh sure, we get glimpses from that mountain top now and then, but it doesn't take much for that sense of incompleteness to reassert itself. I can only conclude that fulfillment, being a process, is an achievement that may be realized only after a lifelong pursuit. There will always be some part of me not yet complete, not quite whole - until the day comes when all things are completed, when all things are made whole.

The above can be summed up as simply as this: Contentment is a state; fulfillment is a process. The challenge: somehow being content within that process.

If any of this makes sense, and if any of it is true, where does that leave me? My coffee cup is empty, and the day still beckons. I still feel a little lost. I suppose I can rationalize it this way: it is okay to feel what I feel, because feelings are transitory and are a natural part of life. The key is to press on, remembering that fulfillment is possible. It just may take a while. And that allows me to be content in the hope that for those moments when I feel a little lost, they won't last. It's all a part of the process.

Thoughts in the Aftermath of a Silly Online Quiz

Some months ago, in a moment of weakness, I succumbed to the most frivolous of digital temptations: a silly online "quiz." No, this was not some examination designed to test my knowledge of world geography, or to measure my understanding of obscure facts in the Star Wars universe. Rather, this quiz purported to reveal secrets about the nature of my personality based solely on - wait for it - what shapes most appeal to me. I've seen different versions of this from various team building seminars, but this particular one appeared to be even less scientific (if that is possible). There were some 20 questions, almost all of which asked me to select an image from a group that most appealed to me. I know you are anxiously awaiting the big reveal, so here it is (in part):

You are most often drawn to shapes that include rectangles, and this makes you the Explorer. You seek adventure and new experiences, and yet sometimes lack the funds or guts to make it happen. You are inquisitive by nature, and courageous too. You are naturally supportive of your loved ones and have tremendous strength and foresight. For those of you that take the risk, and go forth and travel, you love to get to know other cultures and people on your journeys. Explorers have a passion for knowledge, and like to converse with people from all walks of life. You seek harmony and balance in your endeavors, and thrive most when you are able to juggle risk and reward to your benefit. Curious, dependable, determined, and spirited, that is you.

Ah, behold the revelation of my true self, exposed by the selection of images that contain rectangles, above those with squares, circles, triangles, and abstract mishmashes of shapeless colors. Look at me, the Explorer! I am sure that when people see me, or think of me, "Explorer" is naturally the very first thing that comes to mind. Yeah.

Silly online quiz … probably exists only to collect personal data in some way to further enhance or exploit my "digital footprint" to the benefit of somebody else, or to sell me hiking boots.

But I must admit, these results have made me think. My 45th birthday is mere months away, and I have been pondering what to do differently, if anything, with the second half of my life. I've considered going back to school for a Master's degree, as well as the possibility of a career change, but have come to the initial conclusion that right now, I have neither the funds nor the guts to pursue either. In the near term, I'll probably have to settle for picking up a new hobby. Writing online quizzes, for example.

I do wish, sometimes, that I was that Explorer. I was as a child, at least in my imagination. Those days are mostly gone now. But the idea still flickers, deep down, I think, for whenever I give in to this navel-gazing introspection, a snippet of an old John Denver song plays in my mind:

Come dance with the west wind and touch on the mountain tops.
Sail o'er the canyons and up to the stars.
And reach for the heavens and hope for the future
and all that we can be, and not what we are.

I suppose, this is one facet of being an Explorer: reaching for Heaven, hoping for the Future, and looking toward all that we can be, and not just what we are today. I cannot begin to explain how this one verse in an old song speaks to me. Maybe, just maybe, it is confirming that long buried idea that I really can be more like this Explorer character.

Or maybe it just means I like rectangles.

It's September, and that Means Sunrises

Of course, the sun rises everyday. And yes, the approach of dawn can be beautiful any time of year, if the conditions are just right. For the past few years however, it seems that September is the prime month for the kind of sunrises that reach beyond the barriers I so carefully erect, filling my eyes with colors and sometimes tears. I age with the seasons, and perhaps it truly is for such a time as this, when my reserves are low and I ache for renewal, that these masterpieces of divine tapestry arrive in quiet splendor.

His mercies are indeed new every morning.

Random MishMash

I'm not writing much these days, as should be quite apparent by now. There are many reasons for this, many having to do with the notion that "discretion is the better part of valor," which to take the true Shakespearean meaning serves as an indictment against the type of man I think I claim to be. I could say I am busy, which would also be true, but even this does not tell the whole story. I could say I am concerned with the Orwellian trends in our discourse, and that some exercise of caution may be warranted, particularly with respect to future employment given the public nature of our social media, blogs, and the like.

Needless to say, I've been doing some soul searching as to what I should be writing about, what I want to write about, and whether there is much to be gained by writing at all. (Hey, if I'm going to have a crisis of faith, better that it involves something like this than anything else more important!)

Below are a couple of nuggets, bite-size rants if you will, that are standalone thoughts I've jotted down or copied off over the last month or so, but never developed into anything more meaningful. They are generally devoid of context, so I'll leave it to your imagination what drove me to put them down.

• I am forever amazed at those who believe progress means nullifying history rather than learning from it, and each other. And yet I shouldn't be, for this is a tale as old as civilization itself.

• Willful blindness and the inability to accept the humanity and fallibility of our forebears for what they are makes my head explode.

Key quotes:

"Everything is permissible"--but not everything is beneficial. "Everything is permissible"--but not everything is constructive. - 1 Corinthians 10:23

“For under the smooth legal surface of our society there are already moving very lawless things. We are always near the breaking-point when we care only for what is legal and nothing for what is lawful. Unless we have a moral principle about such delicate matters as marriage and murder, the whole world will become a welter of exceptions with no rules. There will be so many hard cases that everything will go soft.”- G. K. Chesterton

And finally:

• If a fool happens to speak the truth, that a fool said it makes it no less the truth.

• Truth is more about what is, and less about what you think it is, or even who said it. Objective truth matters.

I also have a story about a bison, that perhaps one day I will put to print. I've started the composition several times, but end up marveling at the idea that perhaps I am more like the bison than I would have ever imagined. When I get that figured out, I'll have a story worth telling.

A Dad's Lament

Later this week, my boys are finally going to learn to fish, and I'm not going to be there. Someone else will be teaching them, and that depresses me.

Some of my fondest childhood memories hail back to a time when the highlight of the summer was a week-long fishing trip to a lake in the woods of northern Minnesota, where the target catch was walleye, Northern Pike, and the occasional perch. Learning at the feet of my grandfather, my father, and my uncle all the while competing with my cousins as to who could catch the most fish, these hold a special significance for me. Of course, if I am honest, many days were spent just hoping to catch anything at all. Nevertheless, the lessons in tying fishing line, setting the hook, getting out of the weeds, casting without hooking anyone in the process, cleaning a fish … all these foundational experiences set forth in me a life-long love for being on the water, with a line in, passing the time.

And then, the sad resignation that since one trip in college, I haven't been fishing in 20 years.

As Boy Scouts, my sons are heading to camp, where each will work to earn their Fishing Merit Badge. Yesterday, I bought each of them new gear, including rod and reel, to replace those that I had once owned but was unable to recover from the storm.

Today, I taught them what a swivel barrel is, and how to tie the line to the swivel. I showed them what the different lures were for, the difference between a jig and a spinner, and how to attach a bobber. I showed them proper casting technique, taking advantage of the yard's tall grass to simulate the effect of having the lure get caught in the weeds, and how to gently but firmly tug at it without breaking the line.

I then went inside, while they continued to practice off the back deck.

I know there is still time, but the fact is there is not nearly enough of it. My oldest will be off to college in just a couple of years. They will have a different set of memories and experiences than I had growing up, and I suppose that is okay. But my heart hurts that I have not managed to make this one thing that was so important to me a part of their experience.

My boys might catch a fish this week. And if they do, I won't be there to see it, or to share in their joy.

The thought of this makes me ache, far more than I care to admit.

But I still hope they catch the fish.

Christmas Meditation: What Can I Give?

I thought this would be easy. Foolish me. Having years of written devotions and reflections at my disposal, I figured it would be a simple matter to select and adapt one to suit my purposes for this year's Christmas meditation. And yet, out of all of that precious raw material, none seems to satisfy, none seem suited to the moment.

I grew up in a stable family with loving parents, with means afforded to that of a military officer coupled with wise saving and financial discipline. Gift giving at Christmas, while never extravagant, was nothing I would ever consider meager. I suppose I could write about Christmases past, shuttling between grandparents and Christmas Eve services in Chicago, sharing a plethora of memories that are warm and comforting, but in the end these offer little material for public consumption.

In the years between my childhood and young adulthood, I began to place less value on both the receiving and giving of gifts. I'm really not sure why. The act of giving brought some joy, and the act of receiving, while a little more difficult, brought some pleasure too. But for whatever reason, the gifts (the objects themselves) became less important or precious. A personal failing perhaps. Or perhaps a simple reordering of personal priorities. I began to take a little more seriously this idea of laying up treasures in heaven, rather than accumulating them on earth. Gifts continued to be given and received, but always with the knowledge of their temporal nature. We continued to prosper, and in turn, where we could, we endeavored to share that prosperity. In a word, we have been comfortable.

The past few years have been particularly trying, putting to the test that comfort. Early in 2011, a severely ruptured appendix that was nearly missed as the result of inconclusive ultrasounds and CT scans put me in the hospital for a week. That same spring, a couple of months later, another near miss as a massive tornado outbreak swept across the south, coming as close as half a mile, leaving us in the dark - but safe - for seven days. In the summer of 2011, I came home with one son from a camping trip to find my wife and other son bruised and sore from a car accident from which they somehow walked away. And then finally, in 2012, standing above the rubble of my home - destroyed by a direct hit from a high-end EF2 tornado - I could do nothing but give thanks for the fact that the love of my life and our children were safe. The outpouring of love and support from family, friends, and community - locally and online - was a gift beyond measure. And today, we are once again living day by day, with jobs and kids and crazy calendars, in a rebuilt home on the spot where so much could have been lost. And yet wasn't.

I have been given so much. Indeed, the greatest gifts I have ever received is the air I breathe, the family I love, and the faith to which I cling.

What should one do with a life that, when compared to so many, seems so fortunate and blessed? What can I give that could compare to the mercy and grace I have received, and continue to find sitting on my doorstep? I can give things, money, time … all this could help make me feel better, but to feel better is to attempt to assuage a guilt that I need not carry.

No, the burden is not one born of guilt, but rather one born of debt. For one who has been given so much, what can I give? What light can I bring to push back the darkness, today and everyday? What joy, what hope, what love can I extend that will touch the lives of those who so desperately need those things?

What can I give? Things, money, and time? Yes. Perhaps a kind word, a prayer, or even a holy kick in the rear.

In the end, I have been given life. I have been given love. I have been given grace I have never once deserved. I have been given modest means, and I have been given a voice. And yet, to hoard these gifts would be to squander them.

The picture below is of an ornament in the heart of our Christmas tree. Recovered from the storm, this is the ornament I most cherish. Not because of the thing itself, but because of the scene it captures, the truth it represents.

What can I give? Perhaps, as the old hymn says, simply this: my soul, my life, my all.

How can I possibly live up to such a high ideal? I don't know that I can. But I will try, and pray that grace covers the rest. Such is the promise, such is much my hope.

To you, and to your families, peace and grace.

Merry Christmas!

Thanksgiving Reflection

I spent some time on YouTube today, seeking inspiration for this year's Thanksgiving post. While there was plenty to choose from - of all shapes and sizes, in poor taste and good - I settled on "Thanksgiving" by American pianist George Winston. I invite you for a moment to close your eyes, and simply drink it in:


There is a dimension of Thanksgiving that goes higher than its history, deeper than the Detroit Lions, and further than the fowl that may grace our family table. It is more than just a day to take stock and count our blessings, although such an exercise has value.

I've not lived as much life as some, and I've lived more life than many. The music plays, and with each turn of the page I see images of a lifetime, memories of happy times and sad, faces familiar and others that were almost forgotten. Memories, and the emotions they evoke, are treasures to cherish be they bright or bittersweet. Our life is what it is; every moment, every soul, every experience has made us what we are. To discover within ourselves the capacity to be thankful for our lifetime, when so much argues against us to undermine that discovery, takes a spiritual act of will: a courageous choice to be thankful for all that we are, and what has brought us to be, wherever and whatever we are to become. For some, this may be easy while for others it is almost unbearably heartbreaking.

Yet as I close my eyes, and the notes dance upon my mind, I come to the conclusion that Thanksgiving about all those who have shaped our lives, guided our steps, and filled those spaces in our hearts. It is for joy, in the midst of all things, that we are here. It is for the love of family and friends in our presence, and a remembrance of precious loved ones no longer present, but with us just the same. And it is about those we've yet to meet, and embrace.

Therein lies the heart of this Thanksgiving message: Being thankful for a lifetime that was, a life that is, and an eternity that is to come.

May it be so for you and yours.


* Originally posted for Thanksgiving 2010. Thought it was worth reposting. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Veterans Day 2014

On this Veterans Day, I offer again a thanks to the many men and women who have stood in harm's way on behalf of the American people, and indeed, on behalf of citizens of nations around the world. No words of mine can adequately express the debt owed to those who stand in the gap for the cause of freedom and liberty.

I do invite you, however, to give pause, and remember that each Soldier, Marine, Seaman, and Airman who volunteered to wear the uniform deserve to have their stories told and their sacrifices honored. There are far too many that are too quick to use a few bad examples to tarnish the whole, and I have little patience for such drivel (for the short-tempered, reader caution is advised).

If you read anything today, read this next link. Writing at Ricochet.com, Dave Carter has penned a most poignant piece that left me naught but tears. Take a few minutes and read "If The Wall Could Speak", and give thanks for those who have gone before us, and also give thanks to those who are still with us.

Really, don't miss Dave's piece. It is worth your time.

Life’s Little Pleasures

I awoke this morning with a mantle of melancholy draped across my shoulders, a not uncommon occurrence with me, but one which I find increasingly tiresome. As the first to rise on this rare Saturday free from the manacles of outside commitments, I walked to the kitchen to start the coffee. Opening the cabinet, I retrieved the can holding the blend of heaven, and smiled, for it was brand new.

Why? You see, there are few pleasures in life quite like the smell you smell when you first open a vacuum-sealed pouch of coffee.

Such are the little pleasures of life. And there are others:

The gentle slap of water against the side of a canoe.

The lights on a Christmas tree in an otherwise darkened room.

The look of pure joy on a child’s face in the presence of a new discovery.

The sound of wind in the leaves on a quiet summer’s eve.

These moments bring little pockets of peace to an otherwise fretful, noisy life, which makes them precious indeed. Like manna from heaven.