One Year Later, Or Last Month

Today marks the one year anniversary of a devasting and widespread outbreak of severe weather across much of the south, resulting in catastrophic devastation and loss of life. At one time, I had begun to prepare a piece for this blog that would look back on that day, from the frantic effort to find a way home across a veritable war zone featuring numerous blocked roads cluttered with downed trees and power lines, to the race to my brother-in-law's house in a failed attempt to patch a roof before the next round of storms, to hiding for the better part of 8 hours in the basement of our home as the darkest of days turned into night. I would have recounted the 7 days without power, the discovery of community among our neighbors, the stories of blessing and heartache and marvel that were born of that experience.

Yet as I sit here, I find that my view of April 27 is clouded - and yet made more clear - by March 2nd. What I could only imagine then, I now know. In the past 8 weeks, I have met several people at the ballfield, at the school, and around town whose lives were changed by April 27. Each conversation, many with complete strangers, was made rich by the understanding and empathy that comes from a shared experience.

As we labor to move on from March 2nd, I am struck by the reality that recovery may take far longer than I expect. To this day, there are still families all around us still struggling to get life back on track after April 27. There are still those who shake in fear at the even the threat of bad weather. Even I have lost my taste for a "good thunderstorm" in recent weeks, and as one who enjoys the science and mystery of weather phenomena, that's saying something. Maybe it'll come back in time, but for now, peaceable weather would be preferred. The point is, I am learning from those who know, that "normal" is a long way off. But I will not lack for hope, and I will remain confident that a restoration is coming. Are we changed? Yes. But we are together, and that means everything.

In closing, I offer the following links below, for those of you who may wish to look back at April 27. God be with you.

My Posts:

The post I made just before 1 pm on April 27

The day the power came back on

When the Lights Came Back On

Other Look Backs:

Huntsville Utilities, TVA overcame long odds

A Year Ago Today - al.com

Local Meteorologists Look Back

Special Report from the National Weather Service

Plus ça change ...

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. That simple phrase remains one of the very few I can still recall from my days in high school, sitting in a French class taught by a teacher with an Art major and a powerful southern drawl. Such a grand way of saying what we've all heard before: the more things change, the more things remain the same. To the philosopher, it may be one of the most celebrated abstractions used to define the experience of the human condition through the passage of time. To those of a more pragmatic disposition, the notion is so intrinsically obvious as to warrant that other celebrated saying: "Well, duh!"

I am old enough to have seen the times change, and young enough to not be all that surprised by the fact. For instance, I am old enough to remember the days when TV stations would sign-off at midnight, play the U.S. National Anthem, and shut off their transmitters. I am young enough, however, to recognize - and to a certain extent appreciate - the 24-hr broadcast cycle as a market-driven opportunity. (You know somebody got rich selling all those Ginsu knives that could cut through tin cans and metal pipes and still slice your tomatoes). I would imagine that there are few remaining TV stations that still sign-off that way anymore.

I'm reminded of the time I lived on base near Grand Forks. Every day at 5pm, the flag would be lowered, accompanied by the playing of the anthem, and Taps, through the system of PA speakers that blanketed the base. Every car, every pedestrian, every kid on his bike would come to a stop where they were until the final note had faded in the wind. Maybe using the word "every" is a bit naïve, but from my vantage point and recollection, I don't recall seeing many violators of that etiquette. Nowadays, I still chafe when I see people talking, cooking, hats-on, and otherwise ignoring the anthem and flag (say, at opening day of little league). I wonder sometimes, if that custom of lowering the colors still continues, in the same way I remember it as a kid.

I also remember going to the movies on base. Prior to the start of any feature presentation, the screen would fill with the flag, the speakers would pound out a drum roll, and the theater patrons would rise as one as the anthem was played. The memory of silhouettes standing at attention against a movie screen filled with images of national landmarks and flights of Air Force fighters, bombers and tankers is one I'll never forget. I consider myself fortunate to even have such a memory.

To satisfy my curiosity, I asked the almighty Google if playing and standing for the anthem was still a common practice at theaters on military bases. The results were largely inconclusive, but I saw several references that seemed to indicate that, indeed, this custom remains alive and well. I'm glad.

Times have changed, and so have people across the generations. This is nothing new. But just as human nature transcends the changing times (in ways both good and bad), so too do certain ideals and virtues. I only wish we could spend more time appealing to that which is virtuous in us, rather than what is base in us.

The first video below is the video that begat the meandering rabbit trail above, posted by a friend of mine elsewhere. (I say meandering rabbit trail, because as I look at the first and sixth paragraphs, they seem like they should be the bookends of a different kind of essay, rather than the one I've chosen. But this is the path my mind took, so I'll leave well enough alone for now - an opportunity for reuse later). The second video is one I found, that while not exactly the same, is reminiscent of what I remember seeing in the theaters. Enjoy.

Moyer Wins

Now here's a man who clearly plays for the love of the game. Jamie Moyer, drafted by the Cubs in 1984 (five years before I graduated high school), notched a win last night for the Colorado Rockies against the San Diego Padres. Moyer broke into the bigs in 1986, and his career now spans 26 years with the Cubs, Rangers, Cardinals, Orioles, Mariners, Red Sox, Phillies and now the Rockies.

With the victory, Moyer is now the oldest pitcher ever to notch a win in the major leagues, at age 49, 150 days. In a game where the average retirement age is in the mid-30's, Moyer just keeps throwing, finds his way onto rosters, and manages to be effective. He pitches against some players that weren't even born when he first took the mound in the bigs. He currently sits at 268 wins, and while conventional wisdom makes the 300 milestone seem unlikely, I just don't think you want to count this guy out. Why? Because aging body aside, there's this little gem in Pat Graham's article (emphasis mine):

Moyer ended the threat by getting pinch hitter Jeremy Hermida to ground out to second on a 76-mph cutter.

That was vintage Moyer.

With streaks of gray in his hair, Moyer looks like a player who will turn 50 in November.

But once he steps on the mound that youthful exuberance returns.

He's transformed into a kid again, sprinting out to the mound after each inning.

On this night, he looked more like a spry rookie than a veteran nearing retirement - or at least his AARP card.

Would that we all could approach our jobs, our lives with such exuberance. Or perhaps, maybe we just should. Tip of the cap to you, Mr. Moyer.

Moon View

I really love images like this. From the International Space Station:

(h/t): Universe Today

Writing Advice from C.S. Lewis

A couple of weeks ago, I bookmarked another delightful piece of correspondence from Letters of Note, a wonderful diversionary site I find myself returning to on a weekly basis. In this installment, writer C.S. Lewis pens a letter to a young fan that includes some interesting advice on the craft of writing. Lewis offers five suggestions for writers:

1. Always try to use the language so as to make quite clear what you mean and make sure your sentence couldn't mean anything else.

2. Always prefer the plain direct word to the long, vague one. Don't implement promises, but keep them.

3. Never use abstract nouns when concrete ones will do. If you mean "More people died" don't say "Mortality rose."

4. In writing. Don't use adjectives which merely tell us how you want us to feel about the thing you are describing. I mean, instead of telling us a thing was "terrible," describe it so that we'll be terrified. Don't say it was "delightful"; make us say "delightful" when we've read the description. You see, all those words (horrifying, wonderful, hideous, exquisite) are only like saying to your readers, "Please will you do my job for me."

5. Don't use words too big for the subject. Don't say "infinitely" when you mean "very"; otherwise you'll have no word left when you want to talk about something really infinite.

I have yet to decide whether I should figuratively pin this advice to my writing corkboard, even though I recognize that I'm guilty of some of what he suggests are errors. As for the first item, I have no issue. In fact, I could argue that I'm too obsessed with being understood. It is one thing to put together language and words in order to be clear. It is another thing to go on and on, restating the same argument, making a broad and detailed case for the sole purpose of not being misunderstood. Of course, you must then balance this against the requirement for brevity, the so-called economy of words. Not my strong suit.

His second recommendation simply pains me. While his example is quite clear and apt (who "implements" promises, anyway?), I admit to the joy of an extended vocabulary. There are so many wonderful words that would fail to see the light of day if we limited ourselves to the lowest common denominator in our word choice. I suppose it depends in part upon the style and audience of the written material.

Number three, I'm in full agreement. I remember school days in which I would attempt to use such constructions of abstraction, mostly in a silly attempt to impress my instructors with the use of "bigger words." However, I believe there is a natural tension here, as teachers often encourage such constructions to encourage the use of a broader vocabulary. You know, the whole "use this word in a sentence" meme.

The fourth is a matter of art as much a matter of construction. Some writers simply have that gift to make the reader emotionally connect to their material. In visual arts, including video, the artist can make creative use of color and music to create the desired mood or response in the audience. With the written word, I'm not so certain there is such a clear-cut, manipulative formula. It is all in how you tell the story, or whether it is a good story told well.

Finally, a lesson in the proper use of hyperbole. If you use language at the extreme, then all that is left is absurdity. Our political class could take some lessons from this. Still, the avoidance of unnecessary exaggeration is good advice, except when used as a tool to further the story in a desirable way. But it is a tool that should be used sparingly - if you are telling a tale, or using it to illustrate a point. Exaggeration or hyperbole presented as fact lowers the value of the writing, and maybe even of the writer.

In the end, the goal is to inform or to entertain, and sometimes both. But to do it well, both the message and the mechanics matter. I have much to learn about each.

The Future Remains Unwritten

It is Friday, April 13, 2012, and I do not yet know what tomorrow holds. Funny that such a statement can be made, given how self-evident that is for any of us. Indeed, the title of this post feels a little over the top for its topic, but it works for me, so I'm going with it.

'Twas Burns that said of mice and men,
Two hundred years ago
The best-laid schemes gang aft agley, a
Truth so wretch'd, bless'd be
To twist the tack of life we plow!

I've never been overly keen on long-term planning, in the sense of the "where do you want to be in 5 years, 10 years" variety. It is not that I believe setting goals and having a vision is unimportant - quite the contrary. It is just that over time (and reinforced the last two years in a rather painful manner), I've learned that life has a way of upsetting "the best laid plans o' mice and men." The more detailed you plan, the more likely events will invalidate your efforts. The key lesson (one I often face) is learning to adapt, keep moving and avoiding the trap that leads to paralysis when life takes a hard unexpected turn. I slip into that trap sometimes, especially because I'm typically not a big fan of "change."

It has been six weeks since we lost our home to the storm. The most frequent question I am asked, and one we ourselves are still asking, "are we going to rebuild"? So much of our focus these past few weeks has centered on the re-establishment of routine, all the legal and insurance matters, and the effort to methodically put our lives back in order. We are back at work. We are living in a rental house. Our old property is cleared of all major debris. We have managed to reduce our salvaged items from 2 10x25 storage units down to 1 (sadly, at least half of what was salvaged so far has not proved savable), but we still have a long way to go. And as much as we have tried to return to routine, life remains anything but. When I am at the office, I find myself preoccupied with matters associated with recovery. When I'm out and about looking at houses, or going through storage, or attending to little things like overdue car tag registrations and the tax assessors office - I find myself fretting about the projects at work that are at risk of falling behind schedule. James 1:8 notes that a double-minded man is unstable in all his ways. While intended for a different context, that verse to some extent does capture the distracted nature of my days. Not much to do but to pray and press through as best I can.

We have met with one builder, and plan to meet with one or two more. The one we interviewed believes that the existing foundation, aside from some repair and reinforcement, should be safe to reuse if we choose to rebuild. Once we get some cost estimates, we'll have a better feel for what the options truly are. On the one hand, this is a buyer's market for housing. I could even make the argument that it would be far more pragmatic in this economy to buy a house, rather than rebuild, since it is likely that the cost of rebuilding will exceed the cost of buying. And yet, I fully own that land. To not rebuild, I would still incur a cost of restoring it to a condition to sell. The original house plans are sitting here on the kitchen table, and each time we or the boys look at those plans, we talk as if rebuilding is the natural answer to what happens next. And certainly there is more excitement surrounding that path than the one that leads to buying something else. But of course, we miss our home, and this is all indicative of the process in which we find ourselves.

Soon I hope, we'll be able to choose a direction and start down the path laid before us. We continue to pray, we continue to gather facts, we continue to heal. It'll become clear in good time.

Bonus: Mr. Blue

Peter Robinson of Ricochet has a beautiful post today, an excerpt from a book called Mr. Blue, published in 1928 by Myles Connolly. I won't copy the post (it's short, and I encourage you to read the whole thing at Ricochet.com). But I will excerpt just the smallest of portions, if I can:

He threw his hands up toward the stars: “My hands, my feet, my poor little brain, my eyes, my ears, all matter more than the whole sweep of these constellations!” he burst out. “God Himself, the God to Whom this whole universe-specked display is as nothing, God Himself had hands like mine and feet like mine, and eyes, and brain, and ears!....” He looked at me intently. “Without Christ we would be little more than bacteria breeding on a pebble in space, or glints of ideas in a whirling void of abstractions. Because of Him, I can stand here out under this cold immensity and know that my infinitesimal pulse-beats and acts and thoughts are of more importance than this whole show of a universe."

Thanks, Peter. Simply wonderful.

Happy Easter!

Today is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it! For Christ the Lord died, but He has also risen! And Christ will indeed come again!

May the joy of Easter fill your heart and your day!



"Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; He has risen!" (Luke 24:5-6, NIV)

The Death of Jesus

Adapted from a devotion published in 1996.

Intense, anguished prayer...."Not my will, Father, but yours".... "Are you the Messiah?".... Shouts, accusations from every direction, taunts..."Let's see a miracle, Son of God!".... "This man is innocent, I will release him".... "No! No! Crucify! Crucify! We have no king but Caesar!"...."I wash my hands of his blood, let it be on your heads".... The robe, the thorns piercing his flesh, the terrible agony of metal grinding through bone, being driven through flesh.... A stranger carrying his cross.... "Don't weep for me".... "Father, forgive them".... "Save yourself, if you are the Christ! Come on, you worthless piece of scum, call for your angels! Come, Oh high and mighty King -- save yourself!! He's quite clever at 'saving' others, but he can't save himself! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!".... "Hey, let's cast lots for these clothes, they'll bring a good price down in the temple market".... "Hey there, Messiah! Come down from that cross and we'll believe you!".... "Jesus, remember me when you come into your Kingdom".... "Today, you will be with me in paradise!".... A darkness deeper than any night fell upon that site. The air became oppressive, stagnant. And as it fell, the people became quiet, the taunting died away, even as evil rejoiced. For 3 hours, the darkness smothered the land. The only sounds were the agonized breathing of the dying. Suddenly, there was a loud cry from the mouth of God, shattering the eerie silence and shattering the hearts of those who heard it. "It is finished." The
veil was torn in two. A spear thrust into His side brings forth a flow of blood and water.

The Son is dead.

It had to be done. It was the only way. Jesus died. He died so that we might live. We can never understand the joy of the Resurrection if we fail to understand the Death. In three days, the Victory was made known. But you cannot appreciate the Victory if you don't experience defeat.

"Now I have given up everything else -- I have found it to be the only way to really know Christ and to experience the mighty power that brought him back to life again, and to find out what it means to suffer and die with him. So whatever it takes, I will be one who lives in the fresh newness of life of those who are alive from the dead." (Philippians 3:10-11, LB)

"In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins ..." (Ephesians 1:7, NIV)

"... and the blood of Jesus, his Son, cleanses us from all sin." (1 John 1:7, NIV)

"Those who belong to Christ have nailed their natural evil desires to his cross and crucified them there." (Galatians 5:24, LB).

"I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me;" (Galatians 2:20, RSV)

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

Originally published 05 April 1996. Encounters! Ministry, Copyright © James A. Chase

1988 Literature Homework

It was indeed, the year 1988, my junior year in high school. My Literature teacher, whose name for the moment escapes me, had assigned us a peculiar piece of creative writing homework. Our mission (which we were forced to accept), was to perform an act of blatant mimicry using as template the opening free-verse styling of Walt Whitman's 1855 "Song of Myself." It begins, of course, with the notable line "I celebrate myself, and sing myself …." I admit, I do cringe a little at the apparent sound of it, as if it were some sort of braggart's delight. But it is I suppose indicative of Whitman's style, this celebration and wonder of the created individual, and the depth of what and who we are as beings of thought, emotion and essence. Nevertheless, I used the opportunity to speak of what I knew about what I believed to be true about myself at the time. I got an A, of course.

I never thought I would use something quite like this as a blog post, but given that I hold before me my journal of poems recovered from the wreckage, plus the fact that it has been 8 days since my last post, I figure it would be as good as anything. So for your temporary enjoyment or not, I present "Personal Thoughts":

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And you too shall know
That which stirs within my being.

I sing and I play,
Losing myself in the beauty of the tune,
The melodies of the heart,
The harmonies of the soul.

I dream,
Dreams of peace and happiness,
Bravery and adventure, love and hate.
Dreams, which are
The only things which keep me sane, and
Provide me the escape I need
From time to time.

***

A child said "What is a dream?"
Climbing onto my knee.
What could I say?
For I have pondered that question all my life,
And have received no answers.

Maybe it is the playground of the soul,
A place where you can relax
And enjoy yourself without worrying
About reality and responsibility.

Or maybe it is an outlet, a bottomless hole
Into which you can release all your problems
And stress, perhaps forever, perhaps for good.
And yet, maybe it is both and more.
A deep, fathomless question,
The answer for which is not meant to be understood.

***

I believe a tune is no less than the sound
Of the Universe,
The music by which the stars themselves dance
With their intergalactic grace.
The melody sings out in the heavens
Harmony mingles in and out of the Glorious Song.
A tune of joy, life, happiness,
And eternal bliss.
A song that is inaudible to some human ears,
Yet can be felt within the stirrings of the heart,
A song from Heaven itself.

***

I understand the need for a dream,
And the need for a song,
To cleanse the soul of its worries and strife
And to relieve the pain of the heart.
Without these, life would be worthless and hard,
With no respite.
If dreams were non-existent, evil would abound,
Crimes would be committed without
Regard for others,
We would have no conscience,
No consideration,
No compassion.

But we do have these things,
And some of us
Realize their importance,
For they, in their own way, make us truly human.

Yes, I was a rather strange specimen as a 17-yr old. Well. I guess some things don't really change with time, do they.

Disposable Words

I like words. I've written or typed quite a few of them in my time. I relish the exercise of formulating a thought and laboring to fashion it in a manner that makes a concept accessible to others. I wrote poetry when I was young, Bible studies in my 20's, and a wide variety of technical and policy documentation throughout my career. I started blogging out of an innate need to write, for myself and anyone willing to suffer as my audience.

Creative writing was never really a focus during my student years. While I believe I am suitably proficient in the use of language and vocabulary, I find that the distinction between words as commodity and words as art to be a difficult chasm to span. It is for this reason and more that I find articles on the topic of the modern use of the English language so interesting. The digital age has greatly commoditized the written word, making it more and more difficult to identify true art in the preponderance of prose. In a fascinating article called "The Pros and Cons of Cyber-English," David Gelernter takes a look at some of the effects the digital age has had on the vernacular. A few excerpts:

Social networking, texting, email and digital messages have borrowed the keys to the English language and are joy-riding all over the landscape, smashing body panels and junking up the fancy interior. Many thoughtful people are worried. But it's good for English to get shaken up occasionally—by people who are using it in new ways, not by academics ordaining from on high.

In the 1980s and '90s, email saved the personal letter from extinction by moving it online. Email-writers have leaned heavily for decades on abbreviations, which suit this quick-and-casual medium. Thus the celebrated "lol," "laughing out loud," and many others.

…

When you are forced to compress your message into fewer words, each word works harder, carries more meaning on its shoulders and, accordingly, becomes more important and interesting. Digital English is no good for poetry or novels, but on balance it's refreshing.

Smiley-faces are another story. Painfully cute hieroglyphics (happy-face, sad-face) have littered email for years; they are the empty beer bottles in the literary flower garden. Anything that can't be pronounced stops the verbal music, makes the reader stumble and marks the writer as a nitwit. These pictograms are for sloppy and lazy writers: E.B. White never felt the need to draw little faces in the margin to make his meaning clear.

I confess that I have, at times, fallen into the habit of using emoticons (smiley-faces, etc.) as shorthand to convey everything from genuine emotion to simple acknowledgement in response to a message I've received. But in my regular writing, never. On to weightier matters (emphasis mine):

Digital words are disposable words. Partly the problem is technological; mostly it is psychological. Ink and paper (or parchment or papyrus) have functioned brilliantly as a presentation and storage medium for a couple of thousand years. It's easy to read a 300-year-old book or a 2,000-year-old scroll. Can you imagine booting a 2,000-year-old computer? For a technologist, "permanent" means the next 20 minutes.

Digital words are easy to write, change, send, forget. They lack the dignity of the printed word. It's hard to throw out a book, even if you don't need or want it; it's easy to delete a million bits without thinking twice. Young writers know that blogs are cutting-edge but want to see their pieces, nonetheless, in real ink on real paper in real books, newspapers or magazines.

Digital words seem cheap because they are, and they grow cheaper by the day. Consider the withering hailstorm of mail, text, social net and blog posts that assaults you the moment you go online. It's become impossible for many a normal, solid citizen to answer his email promptly. But young people seem increasingly apt to ignore uninteresting messages on purpose. If the message is important it will be resent, and if it isn't, who cares anyway? So the value of digital words sinks even lower.

Gelernter's piece is worth a read, so I'll resist citing even more of the article. The above section strikes me particularly keen. So much of our lives are wrapped up in digital mediums, more so than many of us might care to admit. After the tornado, we fretted about retrieving printed documents and papers, out of concern for identity theft and security. Books upon books were pulled out of the rubble, because they were tangible assets that could be retrieved, and perhaps more than a few no longer available in print. Yet we were also concerned about computers, tablets, PDAs and random hard drives, because of the immeasurable volume of information stored on such devices. Three weeks later, we are still not sure whether that data is recoverable, although in due time we will find out.

I consider myself fortunate that I have so much of my writing stored off in different places, including online. But in the blink of an eye, every word, every thought I have committed to digital media could disappear forever. It is almost enough to make me consider committing all of my writing to some sort of printed medium, if only as a safeguard. Yet as events have shown, there is no guarantee on even the printed word.

The truth be told, words have always been disposable. The printed word is no more permanent than the digital word - the only difference is the shelf-life and the nature of the vulnerability. A writer wishes to be read; no more, no less. Words are abundant, and therefore are commodities that have value only in the sense that when put together, they convey something of the author. Some words permeate the culture and give the appearance of immortality. But in the end, all words are temporary, no matter how masterful the formulation, no matter how wide the distribution. So perhaps the chasm between commodity and art is a wasted endeavor as a pursuit of its own aim. I will never become "known" for the things I write, but those who read what I write, they will come to know me.

More Videos - And An Empty Feeling

It is amazing what can be accomplished in a day and a half with the right equipment. I went by the property late this afternoon to find all the major debris completely gone, with only a few small piles and scattered remains littering the lot. Out there on this windy, gray afternoon, I just felt empty.

Below are a few more videos I took with my phone. I apologize if they are a bit shaky at times. I looked along the lines of the footers. I'll have to get an engineer out there to inspect the site. Right now, I'd say there's a fair chance that the slabs will have to be dug up and re-poured. I'm no expert in such matters, though.

Heavy Equipment

Today, the heavy equipment arrived on the property, working the trees on the back line. After a brief consultation, they began pulling down the remaining structure of the house, to include what was left of the kitchen and laundry room and the bonus room. Below is a 3 minute video I captured with my phone showing some of the work in action.

It was good to see the progress, but beyond that, I'm not sure how I felt. The sooner the debris is gone, the better. But after that, the harder decision awaits. All in good time, I suppose.

Space Digest

I needed a little diversion this morning, as we prepare to dive knee deep into the remains of our belongings currently held in storage. Not too long ago, I came across a site called Universe Today. UT aggregates space and astronomy news, among other features. A couple of neat items caught my attention this morning:

First, there are compiled videos of the Aurora Borealis captured from the view of the International Space Station. Here's a sample:


As have many others, I've caught myself gazing at the western sky in the evenings, watching the conjunction of Jupiter and Venus as they dance in the heavens. Their presence and their bright, steady reflection of the sun's light is mesmerizing, and stands out against the normal view of the night sky. Amateurs have captured the conjunction on camera, and the UT post has several to view. I like many of them, but below I think is my favorite (image credit Tavi Greiner):

Back to the real world, I suppose. But I admit, it's nice to blog about something else for a change.

Tuesday's Blurb

It is Tuesday, and spring is fully underway. There is a hint of pollen in the air as the leaves are beginning to unfurl on the trees. The temperature is warm, and the gnats are everywhere.

And no matter how many times I look, or how often I try to shake the image, my house remains a forlorn pile of rubble. I'm in the midst of negotiations with a debris removal company, which I hope to conclude today. Hopefully soon, we'll be able to get the property cleared enough to stop being quite the safety hazard it is now.

We have secured a new residence, and furnished it with rental furniture. My parents left this morning, and perhaps tonight we will stay at the new place for the first time. It'll take several more days to "set up house", but we are moving forward.

Insurance did come through, and although it was far from how I envisioned it, we have paid off the mortgage. In the coming months, we will have to decide whether to rebuild on the lot. Right now, it is just a little too soon to see clearly. Whatever we do, it won't come without first spending much time as a family in prayer. We have been surrounded by such grace these past 11 days, there is no way we're taking a step without prayer.

I have an idea for a longer blog post in the days ahead, but it probably won't be ready until the weekend. Other priorities must come first. In the meantime, suffice it to say, we are okay. And we will be okay.

The days are hard, but we are not alone. Thanks be to God.

Storm Aftermath - Quick Update

I thought I would take a quick moment to update on where we stand, and how we are doing. While blogging is certainly at the low end of the priorities right now, I am aware that several folks have been following the events and our circumstances.

First, allow me again to express my thanks to all for the prayers and support. We finally finished our salvage efforts yesterday. While I cannot rule out doing a little more picking around as the debris removal crews come through, for all intents and purposes, we're done looking for stuff. Our focus will now turn towards some key actions: 1) Sorting through what we have recovered, to determine what is really salvagable, and what needs to be given up; 2) finding a new residence; and 3) lots of phone calls to, well, everyone, in particular to service providers providing us services we are no longer able to use.

Today is March 7, which means this is the fifth day. It is all very surreal, and I would imagine that as the pace of activity changes, the adrenaline surge that has kept us going will fade. We are understandably exhausted, but I cannot help but to notice how tightly we are being held in the embrace of grace. As the old hymn says, "It is Well, With My Soul."

And another comes to mind: "On the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand, all other ground is sinking sand."

We are well, our family is here, and God is with us all.

Peace to you and yours, with all my heart.

When the Lights Can't Come Back On

Last year, I wrote a post here reflecting on the experience of the aftermath of a massive tornado outbreak across the south. In that storm, we narrowly avoided tornadoes to our north and to our south as close as a half mile, and as far as two miles. I shared with you about the experience of community, and my reflection of what happened When the Lights Came Back On.

On March 2, 2012, we experienced another set of devastating storms through our part of the world. This time, for me, the lights will not come back on. On Friday, our home was completely destroyed.

Nobody was home when the EF-2 twister tore through my neighborhood, leaving my home in a pile of rubble. To say that we are still in shock is an understatement. Our immediate needs have been addressed, and we are working to salvage what we can. We have already retrieved more than I thought imaginable.

In April 2011, we did what we could to reach out to neighbors, family and strangers to support relief efforts. In March 2012, I was the recipient of the generosity of my many families: immediate, church, and work. Yesterday, 60-some people descended on our property and helped us with the first phase of salvage. Boy Scouts, members of a high school football team, two church groups, FEMA, Red Cross, and numerous volunteers from a local college tackled the mess. We have been flooded with all kinds of support, kindness and care. Last year, I considered it a tremendous blessing to serve. This weekend, I consider it a tremendous blessing to allow others to share their gifts of service for me. I am overwhelmed.

With respect to my house, the lights cannot come back on. But in the eyes and hearts of those around us these past couple of days, the light is shining. We are in good spirits, all things considered. The Lord is our rock, and our refuge, in this most certain time of trouble. I will praise Him in good times, and bad, and despite our loss, we have been given much.

As I hold my family close, I cannot help but think: I have been, and remain, very, very blessed.

For those of you interested, here is a link to the interview I gave for a local TV station.

Spectacular Time-Lapse from ISS

This is cool enough that I don't really need to comment. I suggest watching it in full screen mode (the button on the bottom right of the video player). And turn up the volume. What would it be like to see such things with our own eyes?


(h/t: Aaron Miller)

Freedom From Religion Foundation Turns Sights Upon Huntsville

We live in a country with hundreds of millions of people, all of divergent views on matters of religion and politics. In communities large and small, the tradition of prayers or invocations before citizen-based meetings, town halls, sporting events and graduation has been a staple of local civic life. Perhaps for some, over time, these brief moments have become more symbolic than substantive. But for years upon years in these communities, those who don't consider themselves religious demonstrated a healthy tolerance or respect for the tradition. Until recent decades, that is. Indeed, while I would wager that the vast majority would not get their feathers in a ruffle over the matter of a short prayer or invocation before civic events, there is a tiny, anonymous minority whose intolerance of such expressions (symbolic or otherwise) creates a firestorm of controversy that ensures their victory by mere intimidation.

This minority has now brought the battle to my area. The Freedom From Religion Foundation, an organization based in Wisconsin, is bringing its mission to destroy expressions of faith in civic life against the long-standing tradition of opening prayers at the Huntsville City Council. From The Huntsville Times:

In a Feb. 16 letter to Council President Mark Russell, the Wisconsin-based Freedom From Religion Foundation argued that prayer at government meetings is "unnecessary, inappropriate and divisive" and should be stopped.
…
The letter infers that the group will sue Huntsville in federal court if the policy is not changed.

The city, of course, is taking the threat seriously. In an era of tight fiscal budgets, no local government or agency can afford to spend taxpayer money to fight such cases in court. The remarkable thing is, the city might stand a decent chance to win in court. But the cost is prohibitive, so it is more likely that the city will lay down without a fight. Oh, they'll revert to a moment of silence or the like. Because that would be the politically correct, tolerant thing to do in the face of virulent, antagonistic intolerance.

I have not been to a Huntsville City Council meeting, so I cannot speak with authority as to the typical nature of the invocation. But at various events where an opening prayer is offered, it strikes me that they are often 30-45 seconds in length, and focused more on the appeal to providence rather than proselytization. From the paper:

"The prayers currently invoked at Council meetings impermissibly advance Christianity," Schmitt wrote, "and lead a reasonable observer to believe that the Council is endorsing not only religion over non-religion, but also Christianity over other faiths."

Unidentified Freedom From Religion Foundation members who live in Huntsville complained to the national office about the City Council prayers. The group says it has more than 17,500 members nationwide, including about 150 in Alabama.

This is part that bothers me the most. Out 150, how many members of this foundation actually live in Huntsville? Suppose it is 10%. Of those 15, how many would bother to attend a city council meeting? In all likelihood, less than 5, and that may even be too high an estimate (it's not like the council meeting is heavily attended by the public). So a couple of "unidentified" local citizens decide to hide behind the skirts of a Wisconsin-based organization that operates on the basis of intimidation to tear down a local civic tradition. We'll never know who the accusers are, because this will never go to court, and the FFRF will protect the privacy and the intolerance of its members. All over the matter of an invocation or prayer that lasts less than a minute.

I want to be charitable to those with opinions that differ from mine, even on a topic like this. But I really can only shake my head in wonder at the ongoing surrender to the tyranny of the minority in our civic life.

Stray Thoughts for Thursday

I always feel guilty when I let a week go by without a blog post, which is somewhat odd given that I'm not sure exactly how much of a regular audience I have. Unfortunately, I have nothing particularly interesting to share today, so I offer instead a gallimaufry of thoughts. (Gallimaufry, you ask? It means a "hodgepodge" or "jumble." Yes, indeed, my thesaurus is indispensable to me).

A year ago today, the warranty expired on my appendix, resulting in a rupture of great proportions. In so many ways, that experience doesn't seem that long ago. I still have phantom pain from time to time. But when all is said and done, I'm still here, and I'm glad to be here. I've been blessed. I still owe my wife a cruise vacation, though. Maybe this fall?

I was outside this morning while the kids were getting ready for school. Spring is most certainly in the air - in fact, it has been nearly all winter. Last year at this time, we'd had 15 inches of snow. This year, we've seen flakes twice, with no accumulation whatsoever. I didn't even have to put insulating covers on the outside spigots. The birds are tuning up their spring symphony, the purple clover is dominating my yard, but I'll be darned if you can make me pull out the lawn mower in February. Not. Going. To. Do. It. But it is a beautiful morning, the air is moist and cool but tinged with the promise of a warm day.

I am starting to long for the day I can afford to start a second career - this one is beginning to wear on me. It still has its good moments, but every now and then I wish for something other than engineering. Of course, I don't know what else I'd do. Bottom line, it is good to be employed in this economy, so I will just have to continue to man-up.

I've been listening to a series of sermons via podcast on the topic of grace. In a strange twist, I find it much easier to extend grace than I do to receive it. On reflection, I surmise that our fallen nature predisposes us against the full embrace of grace. The dissolution of pride, I believe, is key to our transformation by grace. Because while mercy brings relief, the work of grace is far deeper when it is fully realized.

Finally, the annual Cub Scout Pinewood Derby Race has come and gone. I get great joy in letting my son design and craft his car, mostly with hand tools. When the power tools are necessary of course, I step in. Soon enough, I'll let him use the tools himself. But not just yet. His entry this year placed 23rd of 60-some cars, a small step back from last year's performance. He did well, though, and it was fun.

This concludes today's parade. Thanks for reading.