I thought I would include a page of my journal from two years ago. It’s interesting to reflect and revisit that season and thank God that at sometime in the last two years I made a u-turn from the jaded cynicism that was threatening to spiritually suffocate me at the time.

“How oddly out of touch is the corporate religious world. Like a band of people who have gathered together with their back to reality. An inwardly utopian subculture of faith that is outwardly far removed from the ability to identify with those outside the fold. A meager attempt to squeeze honor and authority together with titles and ties. The authority stems from relationship alone and goes only as far as the bonds of those relationships. In other words, don’t expect an airline stewardess to give you an extra bag of pretzels just cause you got credentials. In this world where one creates one’s own world while living in another, the only obvious test is how unobtrusively your planet floats from everyone else’s. The Arkansas redneck and the House of Commons are two different worlds on one planet. The denominational, evangelical, fundamentalist world is floating farther and farther away from the world we are called to go ye into all of. Our perception of being separates involves taking on god’s creative role of producing an Edenic pasture fenced in by the laws of our choosing while we are encouraged to graze on the grass of grace. Much like cattle, head down, self absorbed, blissfully unaware, and regurgitating the same thing over and over.”

I found myself in a Denny's in College Station at 6:30 this morning, sipping coffee, reading the paper, and having a lady named Lois call me 'darlin'. I'm attending a seminar on management skills. It's raining. I didn't get enough sleep. This speaker is good. I still have the taste of undercooked bacon in my mouth. yum...
I'm going through the Band of Brothers series these days. There's a section in there where a WWII vet says that the only way he could do the job at hand was to consider himself to be dead already. It was the only way you could overcome the reality of mortality breathing down your neck and do your job. The Bible says that we are dead to sin and alive to God. I believe that the only way to do the job we're called to do as Christians, is to reckon yourself dead. Every breath, then, becomes a gift.

My good friend, Brian, and I recently completed the Freescale Marathon here in Austin, TX. With a painful bound across the finish line we became part of the .2% of people in America who have crossed the finish line in a marathon. I know it sounds like boasting but after 26.2 miles I should get at least three sentences of boast time. It was an emotional, bonding, strenuous experience. But I found that there is a certain euphoria to the process of completion of a race of that distance. The starting line is crowded and exciting. There's the circus-like fanfare, the live music, the relishing the moment and the general heat of the crowd. The first five miles were also crowded with cheering on the sides of the street and for awhile you don't feel the need to push yourself to run because the mob carries you along with the motivation that if you stop you're going to cause a traffic jam. By the halfway point you begin to get lonely because by now, over half of the runners have dropped out for they had only signed up to run the half marathon. Suddenly the throngs on the side of the road give way to the occasional table of water, Powerade, and tongue depressers with globs of Vaseline. I think I applied 2 pounds of vaseline to my inner thighs during the course of the run. I'm not sure where it all went. These people brave the heat or cold of the day to wait for the 4 seconds that you'll drop by their location to get a jolt of sugar, water, or lubrication to make it to the next medical station. When you finally catch sight of the finish line and hear the roar of the crowd, the announcer calling your name, the smiles of people waiting, well you know you've got to finish strong, so you stir up whatever you've got left to sprint your heart out and into the waiting arms of those who are waiting for you as well as those you have finished with. Oddly they hug you even in your somewhat liquified aromatic condition. I'll leave it to you to draw your own application to running the race of faith. From the strong start, to the lonely halfway mark, to those who drop out, to the servants who support you at various points on the road, to the renewed energy of the final steps, to the waiting throng of those who have gone before. No wonder the Apostle Paul saw his walk of faith as less of a trial to be endured and more of a race to be won.

We are in the world but not of it. This makes for some confusing observations. Here's some questions I'm asking whilst living in Babylon.
Why is the phrase 'It's none of my business' always followed by 'but...'?
If builders built buildings the way programmers write programs, would the first woodpecker to come along destroy civilisation?
Why don't people on television ever go to the toilet?
Can you sit in the shade of the palm of your hand?
Is experience what you get when you don't get what you want?
When travelling at the speed of sound, can you still hear the radio?
Why do teenagers express their burning desires to be different by dressing exactly the same?
Can you sharpen your shoulder blades?
Should you live every day as if it were your last because, one day you'll be right?
Who does the pollen count, and what job could be worse than counting pollen?
If Spiderman became arachnophobic would he be scared of himself?
If you threw a cat out of a car window, would that be cat litter?

My personal favorite quote this week:
The art of diplomacy the ability to say 'nice doggy' until you find a gun?

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.

God is my refuge and strength, a very present help in time of trouble. Therefore I will not fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea. Psalm 46:1-2.

Thanksgiving day, 2004. Actually a more appropriate name for this day would be “Will of God Day”. Ever wonder, with longing in your soul, what in the world (or beyond) is God’s will for you? Whenever you get confused about this think of the verse that says “In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.” This may be the one day of the year that more people are doing God’s will than any other. I know there are the high thinkers who claim that God’s will is being done nomatter what since we don’t really have free will at all. (Like the fight you had with your wife or the way you beat your kid the other night or the way you hit on that married waitress after your fourth beer wasn’t really you. No it was actually God that cursed at your daughter and got you addicted to internet porn. You were just an unwitting pawn in God’s grand game of Sovereignty Solitaire. Ok, whatever.) Jesus emphatically said that we ought to pray that “Your will be done on earth just as it is in Heaven.” If His will is that nobody would perish but that all would come to repentance and yet the Bible teaches that some (most, in fact) will actually perish, then we can correctly deduce that He has entrusted us with a certain level of responsibility to actually make a conscious decision to DO His will. (All the hyperCalvinists gasp at once) Sovereignty and responsibility are not opposing terms. Can we agree that God has made a sovereign choice to allow us the power and authority to choose to do His will? Then what is it that we’re supposed to do? In everything give thanks. So happy “Will of God” day. I hope you took some time to allow a spirit of gratitude to envelope your circumstances and swallow up your sorrow in a sparkling sea of bliss and joy. Ok, neither did I. But at least the turkey was good.

It's been quite a month (or more) since I last set down to the keyboard. I've been doing more thinking and praying than writing lately. What does it mean to 'be ready' in the last days? (2 Timothy 4:2) What is the extent of the authority of the believer? (2 Timothy 3) Can a Christian be demonized? (2 Cor. 2:11 - Seen a fair amount ot this lately...) How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? (Mr Owl says three. I disagree) I've got so much to write about and like the Thanksgiving dinner I'm going to partake of this week, I'll make sure the meat is done before I sink my teeth into it. So I'll continue to allow all of this revelation to marinate and cook thoroughly before I serve it up. Get your fork ready.

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.