I've met some fascinating people in my short life. I recall the brief stint as Sandra Bullock's house cleaner. Our first conversation... (Me cleaning an antique coffee table) "I'm sorry but I don't think I can ever get this thing to look new again." (Her reaction) "Heheheheh, that's funny." Far more intriguing was the unique cast of characters I spent the summer with in London, England in 1988. This was an evangelistic trip with Teen Missions and those 35 people were some of the most colorful personalities that God ever crafted. There was Joel Lawler, who was sure Sid Vicious was still alive. Steve Bakos who did a three month long impression of the church lady. Tammy Prochnov, who new way too much about my character, or lack thereof, from the bus ride from Des Moines to Daytona. Michelle from Georgia, who could make you laugh just by saying the word "head", which in Georgia, has three syllables. Cameron Friesen, a Canadian fireball who got fed up about mid July and headed home. He was my friend and I was sad to see him go. Tami See, who was a rock of common sense in our hurricane of hormonal hedonism. Kim Feenstra, a beautiful girl whose blond hair competed with her smile for 'brightest feature'. Her spirit outshined them both. I broke her heart and mine as well. Then there was Bonnie Penner. A lone soul who, among us all, seemed to know the reason we were on this evangelistic adventure. I was aware that Bonnie both knew God and she loved Him. It's far more rare than you think. We say we love but we can't even love each other and we say we know but most of us haven't even figured out who we are. I respected Bonnie with an angry, seething, brutal respect. I wasn't interested in truth and she seemed intent on making me stare at it every now and then. The painful reflection of loving chastening from a peer with the Spirit's power behind it provoked conversations I'll never forget. At the time I dismissed her by pondering the vast number of people with good hearted zeal I had encountered who, over time, allowed the fire to subside and called it maturity. Imagine my surprise when I decided to take a look online and see where Bonnie had settled down. Surely her youthful passion for the lost had, by now, become a mere memory.
In November of 2002 in the Lebanese city of Sidon, Bonnie was killed by a Muslim gunman. The morning light greeted her opening the orphanage that she worked in and on those steps her life ended for sharing the Gospel of peace with Muslim children. God has chosen mankind to be the lamp by which His light shines in the darkness. With Bonnie's martyrdom, the world lost a lamp that never lacked oil but only shined brighter with each moment. I had begun to fear that my zeal for God, His Word, and His House, would naturally subside over time and that there was little that could be done about it. Bonnie has proved me wrong.

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.

Think about two words here. 'Job' and 'Purpose. If I were to ask you why you have a job you would likely answer, "For a paycheck, sir, and aren't you depriving a village somewhere of an idiot?". Most people work two jobs just so they can have enough money to be broke but ultimately the purpose of the work is to live. Now jump to the kingdom of God. If there's one question I get asked often these days it's, "What does God want me to do?" As Christians we've got things turned around for us because grace is freely given and now our lives are lived in a response of gratitude for the gift. The paycheck's already in the bank so now I just have to live worthy of it, right? So we often focus on the job since we figure the purpose is fulfilled. But it's not. Oh yeah, your salvation is sealed, but that's not what we're talking about. So what's your purpose? The Scripture says that we are "...predestined to be conformed into the image of His Son." That's the purpose. For "when we see Him, then we shall be like Him for we shall see Him as He is." Beyond salvation you embark on a quest that will likely entail a multiple of 'jobs'. Each one with a different description but a single purpose. That you be conformed to the image of Jesus Christ. Don't get hung up on the job. "Walk in the Spirit" today and "whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all of your might." Hey, knowing that in everything God is shaping you, even the job of village idiot is ok.

Pure Evil

Everyone should have a verse of Scripture that speaks to where they are at any given moment. For me, today, it's the one in the second book of Hezekiah that says "Woe to you who install fiberglass insulation". I may have misquoted it there.
Fiberglass insulation is pure evil. It was actually invented by Thaddeus P. Thudpucker in 1836, the year that Texas became the greatest nation in the world. Legend has it that when Tad was a lad that he was bad that his dad got mad and had Tad build a pad. Something thick that would keep out not only the heat, but the sound of the Mariachi band next door. He was a stupid kid and made stuff out of glass and the theory of evolution was finally debunked when, in 2003, stupid people are still using that stuff to keep out the heat and the sound of the Mariachis next door.
There could be some good uses for it though. Having problems with a mouthy kid? No problem. "Here, Junior. Have some cotton candy." Far more effective than soap, I'm thinking. Rapists could be sentenced to have to wear insulated underwear. You can choose the color, yellow or pink. Got a itch on your arm. No problem. Pain is your body's way of crying for attention. Rub some insulation on it. Your body, expecting to be scratched and appeased, will be in shock at the onslaught of pain that you've unleashed and shut up about the itch. That last one is just a theory, mind you.
That part in the Bible that mentions the Lake of Fire is a lousy translation. The word there for fire in the Greek is actually 'fiberglass insulation'. That's eternal torment. A shower of lemon juice and then a synchronized swimming class in the lake of insulation. After a dinner of stale chips, lousy salsa, and no salt, you can enjoy a concert where Liberace plinks out Yanni's greatest hits on an out of tune piano. Oh yes. I'm going to sleep now. (Itch/scratch)

I've got a friend who got a part in the Alamo. That would be the mega film that Disney is pulling off out here in Central Texas. I think everyone in Austin is either in the film or knows someone in the film. Actually not everyone made the cut. Seems the soldiers in those days didn't look like they've grown up on bacon double cheeseburgers and curly fries. They also had to get folks who were keen on letting the pork chop sideburns thicken up. That sent about half of the ladies home. So the cut was of the trim and the untrimmed. Jon is thrilled (as I am for him) that his name, face, and sideburns will be burnt onto celluloid film for all time. It's a great piece of history there, and the grandkids can rent (or download) the film anytime and watch grandpa fight along side of Billy Bob Thornton.
So I was thinking... What will I leave behind? While I have more than I should own, I don't believe that I have that much stuff. (Don't look in the garage) I don't have that much fame. Unless you count the time that I played Rip Van Winkle in the Lake Benton Elementary 5th grade class play. Mom didn't care for it because ol Winkle has act the part of drinking himself into a deep slumber, hence the name "Rip", I guess. I got the lead there and the local paper came out to snap a photo for the front page. It would have been a great photo except I didn't take off the fake beard. Oh well.
A legacy is a funny thing. It's a picture that is bound in the mind and memory of anyone who cares. If you were a generally decent fellow/feline, the memories tend to exaggerate you to sainthood. If you were a scoundrel, you'll be remembered in the same breath as Jack the Ripper, Charles Manson, or Hillary Clinton. Ahh but if you're remembered as a man/woman after God's own heart, there isn't a Nobel Prize winner that can touch that.

Wonder

There's a few items in this world that share the title for the most beautiful things in the universe. A sunset at Pearl Harbor, a praying child, a wild horse at full throttle, the greasy golden bottom of a Pizza Hut pan pizza, and a pregnant woman. No, Traci isn't with child. This isn't an announcement. Two is the limit for us. Not that we didn't want more. We originally had in mind to have about 5. Then I went to Six Flags and realized that an odd number would leave one off the roller coaster. Couldn't have that. Some folks I know that have a van load of kiddos never intended to get there. Spontaneous generation I guess. Seems like things don't often happen the way we plan. I think that's God's way of keeping us from getting blinded by the illusion that we just might be in control. Have you ever seen a child birthed into the world? I didn't remember the hypnotic internal battle that labor is. I was in it with Traci. I wanted to fight it and make all the pain go away. Next to a deep papercut in the webbing of your fingers, helplessness is the worst feeling in the world. Medicine is administered and the battle rages on. The pain is finally defeated by joy. Sheer joy. The sight of the incarnation of love is all it takes. Everything is still hurting but joy takes pain and renders it ineffective. (give yourself about a 5 second pause) I've got a sermon working here and I hope it's clear enough to be seen without any further rambling. "Ahhh, Lord God, You're a wonder."

Have you caught a glimpse of the new Jesus film, "Passion"? Directed by Mel Gibson, the trailer alone makes whatever brutality you endured in Braveheart seem like a hangnail by comparison. So begins the inevitable debate within the sphere of the Kingdom, namely, should this be done? Is it right to expose people to this level of reality? In all honesty I believe we do a greater injustice when we do it wrong. That is to say, do it right or don't do it. The barely bleeding piety we've seen in the past does a great disservice to the entire message of the Gospel for it doesn't touch the fact that our sin was the cause of that punishment. If the punishment were going to fit the crime then most crucifixion scenes would suggest that my sin wasn't all that bad. The sacrifice must be carried out in such a way that the sin of the entire world for all time, and all of the evil that goes with it, could be heaved into the sea of forgetfulness on a single set of shoulders. A few squirts of fake blood are not as brutal as the sin of a single teenager much less the whole of humanity. So if you're going to show it, show it right, so all the world will know the extent of the evil that Christ endured to bring salvation. On the other hand, (because there are always two you know), there is a strange, Babylonian, Romanesque, sense to the world at the moment. For the depravity has hit lows hardly seen by previous generations. We always point to Sodom and Gomorrah as the benchmark but Sodom didn't have the Scriptures, churches on every corner, Christian TV, Christian radio, Christian bookstores, or even a dozen believers within it's walls. To whom much is given much is required. When Billy Graham got on worldwide TV and proclaimed the timeless message of Jesus Christ something happened. Ignorance was no longer an excuse. When this film comes out and people are finally exposed to the closest reality they have experienced yet regarding the message of the cross what will they do? What are we to do with the immense knowledge, understanding, teaching, revelation, and outpouring of grace given to us? Sodom did nothing with nothing and their judgment was total destruction. I fear that if we, as the church, do nothing with something, our judgment will make Sodom's look like a hangnail.

In Acts 12 you find the familiar story of Peter in prison chained between a couple of guards when an angel smacks him (no really) and tells him to get his sandals on and head out the door, which he does. Smart guy. When Peter finally gets outside of the prison and comes to himself he exclaims that God has delivered him from the clutches of Herod and from the expectations of the Jews. The first one isn’t too hard to figure out. Herod represented the invading enemy. But that second one… He’s talking about his people here. It’s odd how Peter was so burdened by the expectations of those around him. We know he gave in to low life peer pressure round the campfire before the crucifixion. But after the resurrection he was a different guy. Or at least that’s what it seemed like. He seemed strong, bold, unshakable, unaffected by the expectations and influence of others. But in Acts 12 he reveals that he was in desperate need of deliverance, not only from the bondage of the enemy but from the bondage of his own people. Expectations make pretty stout chains and those within the household of faith can forge some expectations for you that seem challenging at first but may prove to be the very thing that challenges your freedom and liberty in Christ. If it does, don’t be afraid. An angel may smack you awake one night when you least expect it. Personally, I’m keeping my sandals on.

Went to an old style revival recently and I've got to say that the song service was about as current as the hoop skirt. But you know, there's something rich there. Not about hoop skirts, but about the 'old paths'. At one point during the singin, a guy that was a couple of steps from a long nap in a deep ditch took up the mic and kept the Parkinson's shimmy away long enough to bellow through three verses of 'Blessed Assurance'. I wept. I smelled the aged vinyl of mom's old purse and felt it under my head as I lay on the floor of the Nazarene church in Deland, Fla. I was three years old all over again.
At the time I didn't know or care much about the song, but now, to hear it sung by a seasoned pair of passionate lungs is worth more than gold. I watched, however, as an elderly man sang it as if his life depended on it. I guess it does, and he knows it. Truth is, that we tend to let things age to the point that they offer nothing to us anymore except for dead memories from a rusty recollection. But truth worth knowing is worth remembering. The truth in the lines like, 'Blessed Assurance Jesus is mine, oh what a foretaste of Glory Divine, Heir of salvation, purchase of God, born of His Spirit, washed in His blood' or 'filled with His goodness, lost in His love' these make me realize that the truth that took so long to realize was right in front of me all this time. Divine revelation ages far better than temporal things. All that is Holy wears well as if the suppressive power of time has no authority to diminish the gleaming beauty of that foretaste of Glory Divine. All that is temporal simply succumbs to the forces arrayed against it and, unlike truth, turns to dust. That reminds me. I guess it's time to get mom a new purse.

If you ever decide to spend a night sitting awake in a car (or in my case, a truck) pick a night when the sky is clear and the moon is full. The church is getting a skillfully applied coat of Texas limestone this week and since we have had some trouble with rock hounds moving pieces of ma earth from one place to another it has become necessary to have someone guarding it during the down time. It was surreal to say the least. Sitting on the hillside with the room temp evening breeze blowing just enough to make your hair slowly lean. The glow of the moon made the dusty ground turn an illuminating blue gray and the building seemed to loom up toward the sky as a part of the natural landscape. The dark outline of movement could be seen on the hillside across the road. The deer grazed in the twilight, unafraid and unaware while the occasional set of oncoming headlights blended into the tranquility like a pair of fireflies in a drag race. In the silence, nature's choir was in full chorus as crickets joined in what seemed like a sonic festival of distorted harmony. God's creation is certainly a marvel. You know that stuff about God never sleeping? It's very true. It was a great place to pray.

I'm growin out the do. The hairdo that is. People can't seem to figure this out. "Why are you doing that? What's the purpose? What's he trying to say? What statement is he making? Is he doing the Jesus thing? Since he turned 30 he's getting that Messianic look there. Or is he trying to reach the lost?" As if the lost all have the same haircut. That's how we can tell who's lost. "Or maybe he's trying to regain his fading youth. It's an early-mid life crisis. He'll grow out of it. Maybe he's trying to cover up the fact that it's falling out. I have noticed his forehead gaining altitude. Oh he's really a hippie at heart. It's just his personality." Sigh... I have no profound explanation except to say that I walked into a haircut joint a few months ago and saw the prices and haven't been interested in dropping 18 bucks to get a trim. When I throw down 18 bucks (or even ten) I want to give em something to do. I likely would have gotten a snip awhile back but watching people philosophize about what I'm trying to 'communicate' is really amusing. Maybe I am trying to say something... Ahh, the mystery continues.

I grew up on the road in a less-than-one room house. My world, however, was not the 26' fiberglass 1974 GMC motor home with lime green interior and an 8 track. My world was whatever greeted my eyes from the other side of the windshield. I have in my mental filing cabinet a host of sights, sounds, and smells that conjure up images and stories that are, for me, an attic full of treasures. Having no attic to store collected 'stuff' in I only have my mind and have found that to be sufficient. When I would wake up and feel the chigger bites on my legs (the only bug unhindered by the screen) and taste salt on my lips, I knew we were in Florida. When I smell 'OFF' I am suddenly back a t Strawberry Lake in the woods of northern Minnesota. When the smell of sweating cattle hits me, I recall the dairy farms of Wisconsin, The past is more fond to me now than it was when it was the present. The future is an untraveled road that always looks like a long but exciting climb. But the present is where I live or at least where I eat and sleep. There's a line that every parent of an elder teen knows. "You just eat and sleep here." A kid gets restless with the present and fights its confines and truth be told we never grow out of that.

As a teenager, I viewed the Scriptures as an account of what we must do to attain God’s favor. Close examination reveals that the Scriptures are an account of what God has already done and we are simply acting in response to it. This provides a much more difficult task than paying one’s dues to receive a ‘ticket to paradise’. In this case the tickets have been offered freely. How then do we pay for what we cannot purchase?
Man has been led to believe that value lies in what a thing cost to attain it. What a thing costs, though, depends upon the demand. Could it then be that people are so burdened in life that they can’t imagine being free? So burdened that they don’t wish for life to continue? Could it be that our apathetical response to the grace of God is due to the fact that eternal life has little value for us? Our ignorance of what's to come is much like our ignorance of a foreign country. Our imagination rarely matches the reality so we may view eternity with a negative eye. Like receiving tickets to a place nobody wants to go. Have we so entangled ourselves in the pursuit of pleasure only to find that we really have moved from a previous freedom and dependence of childhood, to the bondage of independence that wearies us to the point that eternal life (as we know it) holds no attraction? No wonder men don’t offer everything they own to gain eternal life anymore.

I love fireworks. Have ever since I was a kid. There's something about explosives. The smell of the imported cardboard and gunpowder. The crude graphics and the wild adjectives used to describe them in titles that were obviously slapped on with tongue in cheek sarcasm. Pyro Power, Wild Weasel, Inferno Explosion, Twitter Glitter, Monsters, Mini Monsters, Mega Monsters, Massive Monsters, you get the idea... The thing is that you could get these things for pennies when I was little and now I watch with strange fascination as people shell out 2, 4, or 6 hundred bucks for this stuff. I make a lousy salesman because I want to grab them by both ears, make forced eye contact, and say, "Are you SURE you want to spend five hundred bucks on a box of twitter glitters and wild weasels???" But they do. So I give em what they want. I watched as a buyer crossed the four-lane road in front of the stand to shoot his 'stuff' off in the parking lot of an adjacent apartment complex. His money became my show. I watched, enjoyed, and smiled wide eyed toward the sky at the show. All for free. But I really didn't care. It wasn't my desire to possess the product or participate in its ignition and display. I watched with indifference. But he was passionate and pleased with the process that he was into, no matter what it cost. There was joy in that. Here's where I'm going with this. Desire is a gift.
Someone once said that the two greatest tragedies in life are not getting what you want and getting what you want. One is desire without relief and the other is lethargic indifference, which is the price of the relief of desire. There's a powerful motivation in desire that either produces life improving passion or destructive criminal behavior. It all depends on the outlet. Men fantasize about the woman they can never possess. They might wake up and realize that their own wife is worth loving far beyond what they can see, or they may become cold to their spouse. In extreme cases they may act out an act of criminal passion. Women dream about the product they can't afford. They may learn to appreciate what they do have or may become angry at the perceived inferiority of what they do have and give it away hoping to justify their upcoming purchase. In extreme cases they get caught on hidden cameras stuffing Hermes scarves into oversized purses. Children imagine lands and wonders they can't see with their eyes. They simply use cardboard boxes, couch cushions, and towels to transform their room into what they dream. We want everything to be better than it is because our desires are an appetite that can never be satisfied. But desire is not an enemy to be killed. It cannot die. It can only move and when it does it moves you too. Desire is a gift to be guided in the right direction. The Psalm says, "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want." This is not that he takes away your ability to want. He uses it to move you. Thank God for the gift of desire. I will learn to see it as a force that can move me to where I want to be. Closer to the heart of God.

Ok here's something worthwhile, unlike my writing from yesterday which was about as desperate as a Michael Bolton impersonator looking for work. The following started the tear ducts working after a long dry spell the first time I heard it (about 7 years ago). I was really beginning to lose faith in the power of words to communicate creatively. Oddly enough I was working in a Christian bookstore at the time.
Poetry by a guy named Bill Malonee. A portion of a piece called 'Parting Shot'.

There's a question forming out here in the dark and a heavy air all around my heart
Now laden with consequence, chain link fence, and shot though with all manner of lies
I've been trapped in and caught
And the world like a tempist in your ears doth roar
And the flesh wants to dress up and play the whore
And the devil wants to cast all manner of doubt on the real lover with the key dying to let you out
Of the bars that you fashioned with your stolen clout
When the great divorce happens hide me in your song
Though I don't deserve it and I don't belong
Well I may be confused but I'll play my hunch,
Did it feel like a kiss or a counterpunch?

I've been neglecting the site for the past few days to devote time to the annual church fireworks stand. Most of the time the company makes the time pass with brevity and levity. Yesterday, though, was about 105 degrees in the shade which made working the stand as fun as being a proctologist in a leper colony. Don't take me too seriously here today. My brain has been scrambled into a cream cornball of insanity by the heat, dust, and gunpowder. Right up there with climbing Everest, running with the bulls in Pamplona, swimming the English Channel, and tipping cows, is working a fireworks stand in Texas in July with 'Sweet Home Alabama' playin in the background. Add to that a fine game of dominos with a buddy who happens to be a card carrying member of the NRA, and you've got an experience that is worth writing about on a weblog that nobody reads. I just looked in the mirror and sure enough, part of my neck is turning red. Bright red.

(A rare moment here. I actually allow another page out of one of my personal journals to leak into cyberspace. Read at your own risk)
For the first time in a great while, I'm bored with life. I've turned 30 and I've become boring. I'm boring myself, for cryin out loud. My quick wit has grown dull and my scathing humor has eroded into chronic irritability. I have no earthly idea why. I still soak in the Scriptures and, by God's Holy Spirit, profound truth occasionally raises it's fearsome head. This is a condition that I have to deal with. I'm not so interested how I went wrong as much as how to get right. Perhaps therin lies the problem. Unless I take a couple of mental steps backwards I may blaze a trail to a greater darkness. When you come to a cliff, only the hopeless or stupid step forward. Optimistic progression steps back to get a clear perspective from a safe vantage point - with the understanding that while the goal still lies ahead there is a way to attain it without plunging to your death. In addition if one dismisses the risk and therefore forfeits the goal, then another death of sorts has occured. This death is far less forgiving because it's a death you have to live. No wonder zombies are so angry. Like other believers I press toward the goal of 'Christlikeness'. People's response to Jesus was to cheer him on one day and kill him the next. Is that what I really want? I want to serve and for that service I would prefer their positive response over the negative. I guess I have to resolve that in fickle people just like me, one is married to the other. So I've come to the cliff. I think I will choose to..."