Consider the scars that life has left on you. John Lennon said that life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. Every one of us has, like a circus performer, factory worker, or even a government employee, discovered that the wheels of living keep on turning even when you ask for a time out. For some, the brokenness within (and without) is a result of their persistent motion and unflinching force. In the play "The Angel That Troubled The Waters" Thornton Wilder wrote of a doctor who wants to be healed of his 'wounds' and the angel stops him and says no. The following exchange ensues.
"Without your wounds where would your power be? The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human being broken in the wheels of living. In Love's service, only the wounded soldiers can serve."
Beautiful and amen. So keep your scars. Not as a sponge for synthetic sympathy to salve your selfish soul, but as a mark of authority to serve as Christ Himself served.

Stood outside of Applebees last night trying to get a glimpse of the red moon. When the clouds finally parted and let us take a look (like a bunch of American teenagers in Amsterdam) we ooooooed and aaaahhhhhed, and then went in for half price appetizers. What makes us look at the awesome and yawn? You know how the Grand Canyon is spectacular for about 10 minutes? There's wonder all around us (at least my kids say so) but somewhere along the way we tend to lose our ability to see it. I've come to believe that worship cannot exist without wonder. Lose one and the other goes with it. To regain your sense of wonder......study the common. The way leaves in a cottonwood tree make that amazing rain sound when they all clack together. The way a bird balances on a fence in the wind. The way the air feels after a rain. the way grass feels on bare feet. Wonder. It's a beautiful thing.

Mother Teresa was once asked, “What can we do to promote world peace?” Her answer was simple, practical, profound, and true. She simply said, “Go home and love your family.”

I went to get a suit altered the other day and in doing so I began to wonder how long it had been since I had been able to fit into a pair of 34 x 34 slacks. Needless to say things have changed since college. I was internally furious with myself. After all, my uncles, all over 50, could easily outrun, outhike, and outexcercise me and can all fit into my old 34s with room to spare. So I did my marathon training this morning. I ran my three miles (nonstop) this at 5:30AM with my brother, Brian. By ‘brother’ I mean the Christian euphemism for a ‘good friend’. The funny thing about running with someone is that you push each other on the outside when everything inside of you screams to QUIT NOW! You yell, “Cmon man, pick it up, you can do this…” Actually Brian is doing most of the spurring. I’m pretty much trying to get oxygen. There’s nothing on earth that I like and dislike more than getting up before sunup and running. It’s not the doing of the thing that holds the pleasure and pain but the completion of the task that carries the satisfaction. Certainly there is a joy in the journey and I have embraced the process but I’m motivated by the promise or the destination. Hebrews 11 gives a list of people who had embraced a process (most of them difficult) and were motivated by a promise. A promise that they would not ever see in their earthly lifetime. The destination was beyond good. Beyond great. Beyond physical limitation. Immersed in spiritual reality. It’s no wonder they were able to endure and achieve as a result of that endurance. I may run, motivated alone by getting back into the old 34s, but I’ll keep running if I can find a higher motivation. I may endure hardship on behalf of the Kingdom of God but only if I get a clear view of the eternal Glory of that Kingdom. Ask God for a fresh vision, a new motivation, but only if you purpose to use it to endure and embrace the process that will take you there.

A quiet Tuesday morning in Kenny's Coffee down Merrilltown road, I sit in a matte black leather chair, sipping the dried fringe of a chai from a recently full mug, listening to Dave Brubeck, typing on a mac, oh yeah... I'm starting out a fine week. The weather is earl grey overcast which makes me glad that I wore the long sleeves. I'll feel stupid this afternoon since the weatherdude said it should hit in the mid 90's later on. What does he know? In Austin you need a weather report for each square mile. Don't like the temp where you are? Move a bit to the right and, ahh that's better. I feel a need to wind down and catch my breath after the past month. Took a road trip to California to move a family out here to work at Calvary. A great friend and excellent brother named Paul Q Pek who has become our minister of music and arts. The guy could give lessons in passion to Bono, no kiddin. It's hard not to be enthralled with the otherness of the Glory of God when it's sung about in such a way. I'm thrilled to be working with Paul for this season in my life. It's one thing to look back on things with fondness. It's quite another to be fond of where you currently are. I am. Quite. If I have one complaint these days... Hmmm, I have none. Well I'll be. Now that's how you start a fine week. (On a side note, hello to my good friend, Audrey, who's nursing sick hearts back to wholeness in Baltimore. Our prayers are with you every day. We miss you.)

What two words in my native tongue can incite such unbridled laughter to the fortunate few who have tasted of the nectar of nonsense? Napoleon Dynamite. Rarely have I seen the same movie twice in three days and laughed harder the second time. Clean, (we took our seven and ten year old) and incredibly raunch free, it's simply the most enjoyable film I've seen all year. I was surrounded, in the theater, by a crowd of people who had seen this thing enough times to be able to quote it and still they were struck with epileptic fits of giddiness. In the wacky vein of the Coens or Waters, Nap D was shot in 22 days for a budget of less than a million and there is nere a computer effect in sight, even in the opening credits. Raw, refreshing, and unrelenting in an early 80's onslaught of geek fashion, music, and hilarious frustration. You know how there are nine or ten good lines in a decent comedy that you quote amonst friends for years to come? In this movie there are no less than 50 of those kind of lines. But you can't quote them for people who haven't seen the film because by themselves, from anyone elses mouth, they just aren't that funny. "Gosh!" "Whatever I want to do!" "Are you gonna eat your tots?" "Are you drinking 1 percent because you think you're fat?" "I worked for three hours on the shading of your upper lip." "The defect in this one is bleach. Yesssss." "I can't fit my nunchucks in my locker." "Vote for Pedro." "...our underwater ally." "That one looks like a medieval warrior." "You got like three feet of air that time." "Do the chickens have large talons?" "I will build a cake for her." "Sweet!!!" "It tastes like this cow got into an onion patch. Yessssss." "My lips hurt really bad." "Vote for me and all of your wildest dreams will come true." "It's a Liger." "Pedro offers you his protection." "Lucky!"
And the dancing, oh the dancing.

The age of 12-15 is a Minnesota thunderstorm, the thought of which makes me want to run for cover. But if I had it to live over again I would but I don't think I would change much. Those were good times. In Lake Benton I had a measure of freedom that I can't give to my own children in this city we live in. And that's a sad state of affairs. For it's in the ability to go wrong that you find whether or not you posess the fortitude to go right. For me that was a good thing because I had some good training by a couple of great parents. I wonder if, in the same situations, would my own children choose wisely? Anyhow, I had a great friend by the name of Zoe Peterson. A firecracker of a girl with a hard right hook to go with her sensitive feminine self. She lived on the edge of town which meant that she had things us city kids didn't have. Horses, a pet racoon, and a fourwheeler. Ahhhh the fourwheeler. It came out of the box clean and was never that way again. The sign (no fourwheelers) that's posted in the park across the street is there today as a memorial to our destructive driving skills. We had some spectacular mishaps and are fortunate to be intact today. Riding back to the Peterson house one day covered in mud from head to toe and too tired to laugh, I had a realization. That danger and fun and risk and pleasure and terror and ecstasy are hard to separate. Often you find one surgically connected to the other. The older I get the more I realize that I'm avoiding the risks, the terror, the danger, and I think this is wisdom. At least common sense tells me to be 'safe'. So we do one of two things. We learn to enjoy those things that made adults seem so boring when we were kids, like sitting around the living room to visit. Or talking to the cat. Or doing crossword puzzles. Or reading the obituary page. Or planting a garden. Or sitting on the toilet with a readers digest til your thighs go numb. Engage in these things and you're likely to never know the sting of having stitches removed again. Unless your cat is like mine and doesn't enjoy casual conversation...
I think, as with most things, that balance is the key. Like Zoe's hard right hook balancing out her sensitive side, we need balanced growth. Don't grow elderly in the process of growing old. Remember the thunderstorm of youth and, instead of running for cover, dance in the rain. At least it'll help your circulation.

Lake Benton, Minnesota. The name means nothing except to me, some old residents, and the 703 people who currently call the community 'home'. It was my home, but it's been awhile. Crossing over the windy plains of Buffalo Ridge travelling west, it surprises a smile on your face when your road suddenly drops and winds through the trees into one of the most peaceful valley towns you ever saw. As you descend, the trees draw back like a curtain to reveal the lake to the left and to the right, the steep roofs of the houses, churches, and buildings just peek through the leafy blanket of green that covers them. To the right is a small ski resort that boasts an old rope tow to the top of a hill that, in the summer, makes room for brave youngsters to roll and run down though the soft bermuda grass. We have dinner at the Country House, where the recipe for French Onion soup, thankfully hasn't changed. I went to school with Julie, our waitress. We catch up briefly yet affectionately. Last I saw her, 16 years ago, she was smiling. Still is. It's hard not to smile around here. Tonight a group of locals makes up the cast of the play, 'Annie' which will draw sell out crowds into the 100 year old opera house. This town is not dead, neither is it dying. It's as alive as Andy Griffith reruns on cable and every bit as familiar. You feel like you've been here before and that you could stand to be here longer than you plan to stay. The play is excellent. Not just a decent bit of community theater. It's good enough to make you glad you left the TV off tonight. These players will go back to family, farms, fields, a mere diversion from the normality of growning corn and soybeans. I take my kids to the park behind my old house. The park I used to play in. The park that still has a merry go round and those dangerous metal jungle gyms in the shape of a dome. No rubbermaid playgroud equipment here. I got the wind knocked out of me on this merry go round at the age of 9. More than once as I recall. I can still hear mom's alto voice climbing the entire musical scale saying the phrase, "Billlllllyyyy, time for supppeeerrrrrrr!" I hated it then. I love its memory now. I went to the school where I found the back door cracked open. I reach for the handle and the door jars open without my help. I step back and look up at Bob, the janitor. "It's been a long time." I say. I say that alot around here. He says, "Henry's boy." Can I look around? (It's good to see him) Sure. I lead my children straight to the 5th grade classroom. (The school runs 1st grade through 12th grade) This was Mrs Haugen's room. Affectionately known as Mrs. H, there was never a better teacher in any school anywhere. The desks are the same. The smell is the same. The marks I made in the wood are still there. (My inner artist trying to express himself) The hall seems smaller. Everything seems smaller.
Back outside, we wander to the old house. The current owners, the Carpenters, are not only glad to see me, but offer ice cream cones to my kids while I look around. Again, everything looks smaller. The house, built in the late 1800s is still solid enough to hold out the biting cold of winter. I walk up the oak staircase to my room. The floor still creaks in the same places. Every solid wood door has a real key hole. I wonder what my current house will look like in 100 years. I laugh. This is the stage upon which played out many a scene that taught me many lessons. Some of the following stories are totally true. Some are as true as I remember them to be. Like I said, It's been awhile.

(Stories about life in Lake Benton will appear after this date, not literally 'below')

I'm on vacation in Minnesota/South Dakota. I think the high is around 72 today.

I don't often (ok, ever) put anyone else's writings on my weblog. After all, it's mine, said the seagull from finding Nemo. Let them get their own stinking blog and put their own fuzzy, black and white, cheezy, contemplative photo on it. I'll make an exception today for my friend, Lee Fruh. (pronounced 'free') I got this from him and thought it was wonderful enough to share. Lee helps out orphaned children in Equador and is a champion for their cause. In addition, he is a fellow underground writer with wonderful wit and wisdom. Enjoy.

The Feather
by Lee Fruh

When news hit that the author of Forrest Gump was moving in across the street, I was elated. I, after all, am an aspiring writer. Winston Groom and I would become fast friends. We would walk together in the Alabama afternoons and wax literary—creative kindred spirits, he and I.

I imagined our relationship coming to a place of great mutual benefit. He would call me in the wee hours. “Lee,” he would say with panicked voice, “The deadline for my sequel to Forrest Gump is tomorrow. I’m almost through with it, but I can’t come up with an enduing. I knew I could turn to you for inspiration.” And out of great appreciation for my priceless input, he would connect me with his friends in the publishing business.

None of this happened. Mr. Groom keeps to himself. In fact the closest I have ever come to him is watching him in a TV commercial for shrimp.

I’m afraid of him, now: afraid that he’ll think of me as one of those writer wannabes who always hangs around hoping to hitch a ride to recognition and success on his coattail. And I’m paranoid that he thinks I stare out of my window into his office, looking over his shoulder as he writes. (This is absolutely not true. It is impossible to see what he is writing—even with the use of my binoculars, because there is a large hanging plant that blocks his computer screen from my line of sight.)

So I leave Winston Groom alone.

But the feather finally got to me. You know what I mean? The feather that floats away from Forrest Gump at the bus stop in the beginning of the movie and drifts down beside him at the end when he is standing by Jenny’s grave. For years, I have theorized about the meaning of that feather. Finally I had to know. So I summoned my courage, faced Mr. Groom’s house with great determination… and brazenly sent Tori, our youngest, across the street to ask him. Meanwhile, I hid inside my house.

Five minutes later, Tori returned with the answer. The feather is none other than Jenny’s spirit drifting along through Forrest’s life, watching over him, making sure he is okay.

Well I hate to disagree with Mr. Groom, especially since he wrote the story. But he’s wrong. The feather isn’t Jenny’s spirit. It’s God’s grace.

Forrest was a disadvantaged boy: he had a curvature in his spine which required him to wear leg-braces. He was intellectually challenged as well. And yet, grace prevailed. Everything that happened to him in his life made him a better person.

I know the feather is God’s grace because there’s been a feather just like it drifting over my life all these years. I, like Forrest am not the sharpest knife in the drawer. I, like Forrest have experienced loss and misfortune. I have been through battles and wars. But something has always helped me; something has always caused me to come out on top. Not my skill or intellect. Something outside of me, watching over me, gradually but persistently guiding me to a better place.

Forrest Gump is just a story written by the guy across the street. But there is something in it that rings true; something about it that touches a longing in our soul. It’s a longing to know that Someone is watching, guiding us through the perils of life. We all want a feather. The great news is that to know God, to have an intimate relationship with Him is to have the feather.

There is a little 9-year-old boy growing up in an Ecuadorian ghetto who needs to get this news. His story is not unlike Forrest Gump’s. His disadvantages are severe; his situation almost hopeless. He needs to know that Someone is looking out for him—Someone who wants to overshadow his life with goodness and mercy. God has a feather for him.

It’s good news. It’s not fiction—it’s the truth. And it’s why we do what we do. Thanks for helping us.

May the Feather be with you!

Consider Psalm 27. A moody piece of work, like the Psalmist said to his wife, "Hey dear. I'm writing a song here but I'm not getting anything. Could you do this?" She says, "Honey bunch, I'm having PMS." He says, "That's ok. It'll make it interesting." She says, "FINE, you lazy jerk. As if I don't have enough to do with ironing your robes and polishing your crown you sorry adulterous excuse for a king husband type guy." David spends the night on the couch and in the morning, voila, Psalm 27. Ok, this probably didn't happen. But for a guy, David is really riding the mood swing here. He begins with some beautiful praise and worship about how much confidence he has in God and about halfway through shifts to how much fear he has in himself. Verses 8 and 9 outline the journey of the believer and the trepidation that goes with it. Vs 8 "When you said, "Seek My face" my heart said unto You, "Your face I will seek". God draws us, we respond, the eternal quest begins. Vs 9 "Hide not your face far from me. Put not your servant away in anger." What are the two biggest fears that man has about having an encounter with God? None, if you're an overweight southern gospel singer waving a Bible in one hand and a fried chicken leg in the other. But if you're like the rest of us you might feel the same way the Psalmist did. Fear #1 - "Hide not your face far from me." Being ignored and rejected is a standard part of human to human relationships. Is it any wonder that we apply the same caution to a human/divine relationship. Though the promise of grace is plain as black ink on white paper within the imitation leather covers of your King James Version, we still get gun shy when it comes to approaching the One whom we claim as Lord. Don't fret. Even king David covered his bases in this area. Fear #2 - "Put not your servant away in anger." It's one thing for the Lord to pay attention to you. As if that wasn't enough, David wants to make sure that when God does pay attention that He's in a good mood. Knowing that the wrath of God is a reality, I don't want to be subjected to that either. Again, though I've read in the Scriptures that I'm not appointed to wrath, I've heard of friendly fire on the news and I want to trust that when God points a finger of judgement at evil, I don't want to be standing in the way by mistake. Proverbs 8:13 defines the fear (healthy) of the Lord. It says it's to hate evil. I guess if I'm doing this then I won't likely be in the wrong place at the wrong time in my relationship with God. With people though? That's another matter altogether. I guess it boils down to what God thinks of you and what man thinks of you and who you care about more.

Authority. The mere mention (or typing) of the word makes one cringe. Authority is lauded by those who have it and cursed by those who are subject to it yet it's God's way of keeping things decent and in order. You wanna know the biggest headache in the body of Christ? It's not those who don't do anything and it's not those who serve under authority. It's those who serve but not subject to authority. I used to shun titles and offices saying things like, "God is my authority. All are equal in grace for we are ALL kings and priests unto God. Therefore I'll serve Him as He directs and I don't need a title to do that." I had a hard time with people calling me 'pastor' and in some ways, I still do. Ultimately though that entire line of thinking was rooted in the rocky soil of pride. I was saying that I want the satisfaction of serving God without the responsibility. It's truly amazing how humiility and pride are often indistinguishable from one another. Though seemingly supported by Scripture, I realized that what I was saying was that to acknowledge an office meant that I was in subjection to authority and therefore had to 'submit' to it. Yet another word that makes me cringe. My anarchist nature dislikes anything that has the potential to abuse and since abuse is commonly associated with those in authority we tend to write off all authority as abusive with catch phrases like, "power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely". The truth is that abuse cannot be abuse unless it is mistreatment from one in authority. A servant may harrass a master but we would call it insubortination. A master may harrass a servant but we would call it abuse. The treatment is the same but the position of the giver and receiver is what defines that treatment. Likewise the office is vital for it defines the limits of the authority. For example, if a nurse checks your prostate that's ok. But if your dentist checks your prostate that's another thing all together. The office and title defines the limits. So take care of your view of authority and those to whom it has been given for ultimately authority comes from God and in it's proper context, is a wonderful thing. Proverbs 29:2 says, "When the righteous are in authority, the people rejoice, but when the wicked beareth rule, the people mourn." Furthermore an understanding of authority is a sign of strong faith. Matthew 8:9-10 tells the story of the centurion who asked Jesus to simply speak and the servant would be healed for he understood that when one with authority speaks, things happen. Jesus says in verse 10, "I have not found so great faith, not in all Israel." A gentile got it for he had a correct perspective of authority but those who had been abused for so long (Israel) by those in authority (Romans) were so hostile to it that their very perspective of Jesus Himself was wrong. Ultimately I have come to realize that Satan attacks authority relentlessly for authority is not for destruction but for edification of the body. In 2nd Corinthians 10:8 Paul writes, "...I should boast somewhat more of our authority, which the Lord has given us for edification, and not for your destruction..." Finally, operating under authority opens up God's blessing and protection for without that submission you're not even recognized. Acts 19:14 tells the story of the sons of Sceva who tried to cast out a demon and the demon says, "Jesus I know, and Paul I know; but who are you?" and proceeds to beat them senseless. Those who try to serve God apart from title, office, submission, and authority are often surprised that they aren't recognized. But without that you're about as effective for the kingdom as a mime in the dark. The Bible says, "Submit yourself to God, resist the devil, and he will flee from you." If you want power and faith you have to get it from the only one qualified to give it and that is the One from whom all authority flows. Let it flow to and through you this week.

"If any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be Anathema Maranatha." Two strange words appear in the KJV version of 1 Corinthians 16:22. Maranatha and Anathema. (Stick with this. It's a fruitful study.) First, Maranatha means 'come Lord' or 'the Lord has come' and was a common greeting among early believers as a constant reminder of the fact the Jesus came in the flesh and He's coming again. We may do well to greet each other in similar fashion in these last days. The other word, anathema, means 'set apart' or 'separated'. Strangely enough it's similar in definition to the word 'sanctified' or even 'holy'. By this time the word had taken on a negative tone and literally meant 'a curse'. In short, it was a bad thing. Now the kicker of this verse is not in these hard words here, but in the word 'love' at the beginning. There are a few Greek words for 'love' in play in the scriptures but the word here is not the common 'agape' that is used to signify divine love. It's the lesser 'phileo' which simply means 'tender affection'. The Bible says that in the last days the 'love' of many would grow cold. We often become so opposed to anything supposidly 'soulish' or 'emotional' that we buy into the error that says if you can turn your feelings off you'll achieve spiritual maturity. NOT SO! There is a holy place for a tender affection for Jesus Christ. God help us if we have allowed our tender affection for Christ to grow cold for in doing so we allow our tender affection for one another to follow. "How can we love God who we have not seen and not love our brother who we have seen?" Perhaps this is why it's so difficult for the world to know that we are Christians for the Bible says that "they'll know we are Christians by our love". There's much more to this study but for now, ask yourself this question. "Has my tender affection for Jesus Christ grown cold?"

Ran into a teenager in WalMart the other day who was wearing an xl black t-shirt sporting the line, "God Hates Me" on the front in large white letters. After an unfruitful chat (he was in the process of getting his ear pierced for the 5th or 6th time and wasn't in the mood to talk) I wandered out of the store sure I'd see him again. He happens to live in my neighborhood. I got to wondering how comfortable we would be (as Christians) wearing a shirt that says, "God Loves Me". We don't have any problem telling people that God/Jesus loves them. I do find, however, that many believers struggle with the concept that God's love is directed at them in particular. I don't think it's a pride issue. I believe it's an issue of personal unworthiness or at lease the perception of it. Others can be worthy and it's a comfort to proclaim that but when it comes to our own it just has a hard time taking hold. Maybe that's why Jesus was so insistent that we stick together in the body of Christ. That we may 'encourage one another' since many people have such difficulty following the mandate to 'build yourself up' in the most holy faith. Do I say that we ought to go around proclaiming God's love for us in a public display of childlike confidence? Yeah. It would probably do the world some good to see a message other than, "I believe this for you but I can't believe it for me so here, you take God's grace because I'm unworthy of it." False humility is an open wound on the church that needs about 3 good stitches. Here's number one. Psalm 57 "I will praise you among the nations" Gal. 2 "For I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless I live, yet not I, but Christ lives in me..." Phil 2 "Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus..." I don't give the specific verse so you may be enticed to search the chapter for the passage and thereby also learn the value of context. I'm gonna give myself a little test here. God loves you. God loves me. I found the second phrase harder to type than the first. Even paused before the word 'me'. Looks like I need to meditate on this too.

Up to now I've been accustomed to people telling me that I'm waaay too young to be doing whatever it is that I'm doing. I've always been on the younger side of things in a world filled with the 'older and wiser'. Fine by me. The last thing I want to be perceived as is a 30 something know-it-all whippersnapper who has no respect for his elders. So the elders eld and the youth do their thing and then there's my new world. A crack in the chasm of the progression of time from birth to death. The strange period of time when you're still too young to be successful and too old to be cool. I've got a leg over the fence and I must tell you that sitting here is not comfortable. What makes me feel old? Hearing Van Halen on the classic rock station. Having a teenager say "Better put some sunscreen on that thinning spot on the back of your head." I have come to like eating at Luby's. Having someone hand you an xbox controller while saying, "Let the old guy play." The way the skin on my elbows seems to constantly need lotion. (According to my wife) Someone actually had the nerve to suggest that I get my prostate checked. I'm not playing any games of red rover, red rover, nurse says bend over. At least not anytime soon. Every time I buckle a seatbelt I feel old. I used to kick back in the floorboard, sit on the arm rest up front, or sleep in the back window. All while the car was doing the speed limit of 55mph. What makes me feel young? Not much. So this is 31. Hmmmm... Nice view. The sunset behind me is brilliant and the sunrise before me is cresting the horizon. Looks like a nice day coming and going.

As per yesterdays post, I've gotten some email about the video thing. Need a wedding or event videographer in Austin, TX? Hit the following link to get to my 'other' website. WilVan Productions
This site has some samples of videos we've done as well as a link to the best wedding photographer in Austin, Michelle Reed. I know, I know... A commercial is not becoming my weblog, but hey, in a year of posts this is a first so cut me some slack here.

I know, I know. I don't update this nearly enough. I lack a couple of things lately. Time and inspiration. They say the lamp of life burns longer than the lamp of inspiration. I don't know who 'they' are but that's what 'they' say. I guess that means that you'll hit some dry spots in your lifetime. Not that I've been suffering for the inabilty to quench my thirst in the river of creative juices. (disgusting visual there) I've been pouring all the energy I have into three major things. Sunday morning there's this series of messages that involve a twist on the old 'chalk talk' trend of the 50's. This involves paint and a canvas the size of a bedsheet. Actually it is a bedsheet. That's been fun, yet difficult. A stutter or stumble in a speech or sermon you can recover from. But one wrong line in a painting and suddenly John the Baptist looks like he didn't quite finish that last bite of locust. The whole effect is gone. So far I'm battin 1000 but I've got a few of these sermons to go so we'll see what happens. In all honesty, it's really a wonderful thing to be able to mix a unique piece of artwork with a unique piece of Gospel. The second thing I'm doing these days is videography. That's really a blast. I can't tell you how much I have enjoyed that stuff. It's fast turning from a hobby into an outright passion. I may have a go at filming a movie here pretty quick. With some of the drivel I've seen lately, I don't think getting in the door will be that difficult. Take 'lost in translation'. What in the world??? "No, Mr. Murray. You don't have any lines. All you have to do is sit on the edge of this bed and stare blankly into the camera. No really. Critics will eat this up and we'll have a five star masterpiece on our hands." I put more thought into setting the temperature in the shower than they did with that cumbersome bore. The other thing I'm working on this summer is tweaking (my word for the day) the script for the LifeGuard Austin Character and Sexuality Program. This means a couple of months of pouring over statistics about Genital Warts, Herpes, the Clap, etc... Ever wonder why they called Gonorrhea 'the clap'? I guess it's because people are really happy when they get it. Kidding... Actually,(turns on Cliff Claven voice) Pelvic Inflamatory Disease (aka PID) also used to be called Chronic Lower Abdominal Pain, hence the term CLAP. At least that's what 'they' say. And far as I know, 'they' are always right.

Consider trust. It seems to take years to build trust but a day or two can take it down like a house of cards in a hurricane. This is a problem for us humans who are built with a need to trust someone in our world. We pick and choose, often poorly, people in which to place our treasure of trust. Eventually something or someone will invade our fortress of security and it explodes, implodes, or just plain disolves as if it were never there. Why is it so easy to isolate ourselves? Because we have found way to many people who have held too lightly with the trust that you have placed in them. What is it like to be on the other side though? To have many people place a trust in you and to carry that weight with arms too weak to hold it all? I would suggest that man was never meant to carry such a load, neither was he meant to place such a load upon another. What I mean is that there is no way that any man (or woman) will never ever ever ever let you down. So prepare for it without being paranoid by the inevitability of it. God has done this with the most immense treasure of all. The Gospel of the Kingdom. With His divine foreknowledge of the inevitable conclusion, He has still chosen to hand us His trust. With all the force of a hurricane, we tend to blow it apart. We fail family, church, work, ministry, and even God. GRACE! GRACE! GRACE! Grace to you who live in the shadow of the mountain of failure that you have built. Grace to you who have isolated yourselves from those who you once trusted. Grace to you who have destroyed the trust that many once placed in you. Grace to you who search with futility for fruit that has sprouted from seeds you planted in hard soil. Grace to you who have been misunderstood by those who claim to love you most. Grace to you who have forsaken the call for the witness that you lost in a moment of weakness. Grace to you all. God still trusts in you.