The book of Jeremiah opens with a recollection of the moment of his call. He has a reluctant conversation with God much like a teenager with a parent. God says to him, “Do not say, “”I am a youth””. In effect, God tells him that what appears to be a fact is, in fact, not a fact. Ultimately God’s eyes see differently and, safe to say, with far more accuracy. God’s view and vision is about as foreign to us as a bikini in Baghdad and often far more shocking. Psalm 32 features a verse in which God declares, “I will guide you with my eye.” No wonder so much of His leading makes so little sense. As believers, we humbly succumb to be led by his sight and thus begin a journey that boldly goes beyond the boundaries of normative thought, ideas, and action. Jeremiah, though told in chapter 1 that he has power to overthrow kings and kingdoms, never gets the chance. The power that God places in him never seems to get fully unleashed on the world. But it’s unleashed in Jeremiah for his heart turns out to be the very kingdom that God wants to conquer the most. So this man of power, pride, and priestly position turns into the “weeping prophet”. I often think of the self esteem style teaching regarding the spiritual authority that has been placed in our lives to subdue and conquer kingdoms and yet we ourselves remain lawless and without restraint. After reading Jeremiah I’ve come to the conclusion that God is far more interested in taking the time to subdue the kingdom of a single man’s heart than to merely use him to subdue what our eyes see as kingdoms. In fact those are kingdoms made by men and, as the Scriptures say, are as dust before Him. It makes sense that the Creator is far more concerned with His creation itself than what His creation has created. Like a child who comes home from school with a crudely beautiful sculpture of popsicle sticks and macaroni and the parent admires it but only because his child has created it. The artwork is destined for the trash can but for now it hangs in a place of prominence. The kingdoms of this world seem so prominent, but in God’s eyes they are as solid as popsicle sticks and macaroni. Our destiny, however, is that the power of the Spirit within us will eventually bring us to a place of obedient submission to His perfect will and we will be conformed into the image of Christ. That’s a fact.

As an evangelists kid, I wasn’t burdened by material wealth nor the want of it. But the few things that I did have were treasures. One of the treasures I had was a travel brochure about Disney World and I loved it because inside it had a map of the park and I meticulously studied the layout. The combination of their facts and my vivid imagination made this simple brochure worth more than gold to me. It’s amazing what we attach value to. Sitting in Grandma Bert’s house one evening, a terrific thunderstorm rolled in with all of the subtlety of a sledge hammer. The wind tore at the house and all two stories creaked and croaked under the strain. My Dad loved storms, at least I thought so, because when there was a storm dad would stand out on the porch with his coffee and take it all in, lightning, thunder, hail, and a chorus of wild wind. I guess it was better than tv because it was interactive entertainment at it’s best. Much to the chagrin of mom I would join him and this night I had in hand my brochure. I stepped onto the porch and saddled up next to Dad and just as I did, a gust of wind sucked the magazine out of my hand and into the black air. Before I knew it, my dad did something totally unexpected. He ran out into the yard and disappeared within the sheets of rain. Mom yelled at me to get in and in terror I curled up on the antique claw-foot couch next to her. I thought he’d be right back but he didn’t come and I shivered with each strike of lightning. My uncle Joe got worried and putting on his coat announced his intention to head out and find dad. More time passed and the wind grew louder. Finally, the door broke open and dad and uncle Joe stumbled in, tired, cold, and soaked to the skin. Dad leaned against mom who had stood up to hug him for being so wonderful and scold him for being so crazy. When he wrapped his arm around her I couldn’t believe my eyes for clutched in his fist was my brochure. It was soaked and ruined but I didn’t care. I don’t remember what happened to it. For all I know, we simply threw it in the garbage that night at Grandma’s house. But I cried hard and held tightly to Dad. Not over the magazine, but over the sacrifice that he made. There’s a huge difference between cost and value. Never cry over anything that can’t cry over you.

My pipes are groaning. Whenever you turn off the shower this groan aches loudly in the walls of the house for a minute or so. Still, indoor plumbing beats an outhouse. If you’ve never used an outhouse you simply haven’t lived. Grandma Alberta lived in Bushnell, SD (population 75 give or take) for most of her 98 years and resided in a house that looked pretty much like the barn across the yard. Unlike the barn though, the house had a paint job and that was in sorry shape so Dad and I set out to give it a fresh coat of whitewash with lime green for the trim. The house didn’t have indoor plumbing so dad hooked a motor up to the old long handle pump in the front yard. When Grandma needed water just plug in the motor and you’re ready to go. The glass in the windows was so old that it wasn’t remotely flat and clear. It warped the view outside because it was wavy. Grandma had this odor about her that was an unmistakable cross between Ben Gay and liniment with a splash of prairie air. Dad said it came from the time she fell in the outhouse. The outhouse was a classic two holer. The narrow door hung crooked and, unlike the cartoons, had no clever carving in it like a crescent moon or whatever. It did, however, have a doorknob made out of an empty wooden spool for thread. In the outhouse hung a sears catalog. The shiny pages were always saved for last for obvious reasons. If that didn’t suit you, a bucket of corncobs set in the corner. Those you could recycle. One summer afternoon a prairie tornado came through as they often did. Everyone had a storm cellar. We called them basements and they are a Yankee’s best kept secret. I say this because somewhere between Oklahoma City and Dallas people just stopped digging them. For some reason these Texans educate their children to protect themselves from an F5 twister by getting in the bathtub. People don’t die too often from twisters in the Dakotas. Know why? Cause they’re in the basement, not in the bathtub! Anyhow the twister came through and grandma headed to the basement till it blew over. Except for a few dozen trees (that were piled up into the best fort a kid ever had) the only thing that was affected was the outhouse, which was upside down in the field. Grandma came up from the basement but didn’t bother to go out to inspect the damage. After all, there was chicken frying on the stove. Evening came and, as per the routine, she took a stroll to the outhouse before turning in for the night. The combination of her poor eyesight and brisk walking proved tragic this night as the classic two holer had now been transformed into a one holer. One big hole. I’m not sure how she managed to get out. That’s always been part of the mystery. All I know is that every time my pipes groan, I think of the outhouse, corn cobs, Grandma Bert, and the farm, and I’m thankful.

It's hard to get to the computer these days. I've been spending most of my minutes learning a trade. The fine art of framing. I've never framed anything but a picture (and a cousin, but that was a long time ago). Just kidding there. It's amazing how everything is tied into everything else and a single mistake or weakness can have a dramatic negative effect on the whole structure. At the same time the structure holds itself up by load transference. When there is a weakness (such as when we ran into a supporting wall with a scissor lift) the entire frame creaks and groans but didn't buckle because the load was evenly supported in many areas. Life is like that. There will always be areas of weakness to fix or correct and though the entire structure may creak and groan the load transfers onto the points of strength. How many points of strength do you have? Mine have names. Traci, Shannon, Randy, Chris, Mark... the list goes on and on. Bear one another’s burdens. Seems I read that somewhere. In this way we maintain a health in the 'body' and not just maintain, but build, construct, reconstruct, and finally we are made complete. Amen.