This day will be the best day I've ever had. It will be different than any other. It will prove to be full of adventures that are as unique as the moments that, together, make it complete. I'll meet with people and communicate thoughts and ideas. Feel the power of emotion. See through the eyes of another. Welcome the presence of a familiar face with a smile. Shake hands with a stranger. Feel the heat of the Texas sun on my cheek. (Yes, we have our own sun here.) Listen to my daughter tell a story and laugh (a genuine laugh) in response. Watch my son perform a trick I've seen many times before. I'll tell him I'm proud of him and that he's really getting good at that. I'll look for the right moment to reach over and take my wife's hand for just a few seconds. We'll exchange a glance and a grin and go on with the day. I'll probably drink a Dr. Pepper or sweet tea on the back porch as the sun sets. Life is an excellent gift.

I've just returned from two whirlwind days in LA. A land where extreme wealth lives in dischordant harmony with extreme poverty. Where else on earth can you see an Aston Martin, a man eating out of a trashcan, a 350 lb bald guy in need of a back wax wearing a speedo with suspenders, a 140.00 pair of underwear at Versace, a stoned hippie playing a violin without strings, a 29 dollar salad, and Roger Ebert kneeling by a star in front of a Chinese theater, all in one day? A tall man with a flowing white beard wearing Gandalf's hat and cloak stood out front and posed time and time again with Asian tourists who coaxed him to say, "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" for a few dollars. Beverly Hills was over the top. Hollywood was a dive. Venice Beach? It's the gathering place for more cheap sunglasses and wasted talent than you ever knew existed. There is no middle class. You're either spending 50,000 a month on a condo or living in a gutter, but there's not a blue collar in sight. So what's the point of this travelog? I don't know. I really don't know. I saw houses in Malibu that were in the process of sliding off foundations that were built on a cliffs mostly made of sand. I saw the coolest car in the world, followed closely by a dozen others just like it. I saw valets running like deer in hunting season while a short old man with tall blonde escort gave an aggrivated glance at a watch worth more than my annual income. I saw the same look of frustration on the face of a guy leaning over the garbage who was pouring the backwash out of multiple coke cans into a single styrofoam cup to make a custom beverage. We used to call it a suicide when I was a little kid at the Sizzler.
So why do they both get frustrated? Shouldn't one or the other be content? First glance would say the rich man would be content and the beggar not. But this was not the case. Each man was frustrated with his existence for each one could recognize the limitations of his own sense of control. This, I believe, is the quest of every man. To gain as much control as possible. The problem is that we never have quite enough. One day you can't afford a beverage, the next day the valet won't get your Mercedes fast enough. When will we learn that our hunger for control will never be satisfied?
On the other side of the control coin are the strung out artists or thong wearing perverts who parade their 'individual' attitude before the world as a way to, in effect, celebrate the false freedom that comes from a perceived loss of control. They exercise extreme antics to dare the giver of control (whoever that may be) to come and take it back already. The beauty of Christian liberty is that revelation that we're not in control. Rather Jesus Christ is. Our subsequent actions are simply our response to His unlimited ability to shape things according to His plan and pleasure. We trust that it's for our good, and that being the case, it seems like a no brainer to allow Him to take his rightful place as Lord of our lives. But dogone it if that isn't hard to do. Cmon, you know it's true.
So what do Gandalf, psycho speedo, Roger Ebert, custom beverage bum, Rolex daddy, and all of us have in common? We're all fighting for the same thing. To gain control or to lose control. Oh the things you can learn in LA.

The tragedy of travelling is that I'm the only one who can see through my eyes. Today I took a drive up the alpine loop east of Orem, Utah through Provo canyon and up to Sundance. Weaving through a forest of birch trees, the three hundredth hairpin turn pulls the curtain of white bark and yellow leaves back to reveal a line of snow covered peaks that jut out of the ground, stabbing the sky. The clouds bend and flex to move through the canyons and around the peaks. The air is a crisp 51 degrees, perfect for rolling the window down to listen to the sound of the mountain stream which makes a great addition to Coldplay's 'speed of sound' which happens to be on the radio. Alone, I park the car and shut off the engine. Standing outside you swear you can hear the mountain. I pray. I don't bow my head. It seems more appropriate to lift my eyes. There is no appropriate human response to such a sight. Wow just doesn't cut it. What appropriate human response is there to the wonder of the majesty of God? "In Him we live..." Your life is worship. "...and move..." Your actions are worship. "...and have our being." Your very existence is worship. Once you get this revelation, you too will lament the tragedy of the fact that nobody else can see through your eyes. Grace and Peace today.

I spent the evening visiting my good friend, Nate Robinson, in amazing downtown Chicago. Home of da bulls, da bears, and ever merciful coach Ditka. Nate had parked and stood out on the corner guiding me in one block at a time. I finally turned on Ontario St and saw Nate two blocks away. Dressed for business, owning the corner, in a crowd, and smiling that million dollar grin that makes you smile back whether you want to or not. Know how long it's been since I've seen Nate? Too long.
If you ever drive downtown Chicago, you'll swear that someone is shooting a movie and just yelled action right before you drove directly into the scene. Only nobody says "Cut" and you continue to drive down Michigan Ave gawking at the sights and listening to the thickness of the sound trapped and bouncing off the buildings with noplace to go but into your ears. It's an onslaught of sights, sound, smells. A literal sensory tsunami. Around the corner from the Apple store with it's brushed aluminum and glowing plexiglass stairs, in stark contrast to the industrial clean room that is Mac Mecca, is a pizza joint known as Pizzaria Due. No less cool, this place embodies old Chicago. It is the Apple store of the 30's and the deep dish is the ingesible ipod. Simply put, there is no equal. It's the best pizza in town. Agnes, the waitress, told me so. I believe her though. She looks like she's carried a few pies in her day and, though past her prime, is still passionate about pizza. Nate and I ordered the deep dish with the works and she sucked wind through pursed lips, like people do when they see a Rembrandt for the first time. Why do I believe her? Because after all those years of watching people ingest slice after slice, she still finds passion in the appetitie of others. I find passion in the appetite of Nate for the things of God. It certainly helps my perspective. You want to get excited about what matters most again? Get around those who are and let them give your jaded perspective a shot of clarity and health. If Agnes can stay passionate about pizza, I can stay passionate about Jesus Christ. Amen

I'm in cheese land today aka Wisconsin. Actually it's one of my favorite states and not because I really like those processed cheese slices, cheese whiz, mozzarella sticks, or Velveeta on macaroni either. It's for the green. Not green as in old cheese, money, or envy. Green as in when you fly into Wisconsin the ground looks like a quilt of deep green. Speaking of cheese though... I remember when I was in Oregon some time ago and saw a sign on the side of the Tillamook cheese factory that read, "Come watch our cheese age". Sounded about as exciting as a game of twister in a nursing home. Nevertheless I learned that Tillamook cheese has to age for 60 days to get the definitive cheddar taste that everyone knows so well. I wondered if you can speed up the process a little and found that, while you can add artificial flavoring to deceive the general populous, true cheddar only comes with time. The key though is not only in the ingredients but also in the environment. If cheese is aged in a proper environment it will only improve with time. If, however, it's left to the elements, it molds and rots.
We're all aging. What we are becoming depends not only on that which is within us, but the environment we are in. I wonder what I am becoming? I feel a bit moldy sometimes. Occasionally sharp cheddar. Sometimes processed American. Either way, I can control my ingredients. I can be set apart from things that would defile me and I can ask God to fill me with His Spirit. I can also control my environment. I can choose to go where and be around whom I choose and while I hope to affect my environment wherever I am, I have found that it also has an effect on me too. I'll leave with two questions to ponder. Has your environment had an effect on who you have become? If so, how? And finally, do you like how you're aging? If not, it may be time to change up some ingredients and/or change the environment.

Sitting here in Austin, TX on a sweltering day in May, it's hard to believe that a couple of evenings ago I was wandering, sweater clad, around the harbor in Annapolis, MD. Dozens of spotless white Naval uniforms wander the streets filled with aspiring young officers whose ink on their high school diploma isn't even dry yet. Here is a young man showing his parents around and trying to convince his mother that he's never been in that bar. Dad's walking a couple of steps behind and looks like he singlehandedly deprived a local merchant of his entire stock of Navy gear. There's a group of five sharing a bench, some exaggerated tales, and cheap cigars. Over to the right is a black lady, mid 40's, alone with her headphones, facing the water, dancing a waltz with an imaginary partner. (Looks like he's leading) I wonder for a moment at what point in my life did I trade my imagination in for inhibition. She apparently passed on that offer. The narrow streets invite me to wander down an alley toward the harmonious hum escaping from the doorway of the "Treaty of Paris" pub. Inside I find a packed house, steins and mugs held high, and a chorus of "What do ya do with a drunken sailor" is in full swing. (Put a lobster in his britches, way hay up he rises, earl-ey in the mornin..) Everyone knows the words. I get no farther than the doorway. They don't seem to notice one more body so I stay for the rest of the song. It's hard not to stand there, leaning against the century old doorframe, grinning like a landlubber. The night is now growing cold, so I head back to the car. On the way I pass a man loading a couple of grocery bags into a boat the size of a bathtub. The dark water looks unforgiving and with some sense of concern I say, "Need some help?" He says no. He's just heading home. Where's home, I ask. He point to the center of the harbor where a good number of sailboats are anchored randomly and roughly 20 yards from each other in any direction. Each one has a small boat attached to it. I realize that this is a small city on the sea. I watch him putter out into the harbor and navigate his way through the maze of masts. He disappears in the dark and only then do I realize that I'm humming outloud. The young sailor with his lass on the bench behind me is too enamored with his prize to notice that I found my imagination again.

Took a long flight to Norfolk on Sunday to speak at a conference. Josh L picked me up at the hotel and we hit the VA Beach area for some excellent seafood and conversation. I took a midnight tour of Regent University and while we're wandering around gawking at the buildings (that would be me) I notice what appears to be a small dog not far away. Turns out to be a fox, and not just one. Well lit fountains and foxes. Nice.
Headed to Richmond Monday evening and, on the way, stopped and wandered around Williamsburg with the digital camera. Again, gawking. When a new house is only 120 years old, you know you're in some fine country. With Sears Vinyl siding NOWHERE in sight, I was soaking in the history of Yorktown, Jamestown, and ALLLL that 'so and so died here' and 'so and so died there'. At the Richmond conference I was pleased to hang out with some wonderful people like the two federal agents and the guy from the legal dept of Phillip Morris (there's the job not to have right now).
Heading north, I arrived just south of DC in time to catch a quick meal and the last episode of the Amazing Race, which I haven't seen at all until now. I was choked up. Great moment when they're trying to beg for money from passers by to pay the cab driver when the finish line and a million bucks is a hundred feet away.
Today in Washington, DC was highlighted by an airplane that flew into the no fly zone and threw the city into a fit. I just happen to get in on all the action. OH YES. Homeland security evacuations? I'm there! I got to the Capitol Hotel and took off on foot to see some sights. Kenneth Cole shoes don't make for comfy walkers folks. After the 5th mile or so I began to wish I had taken the car. Sitting on the lawn between the Washington Monument and 1600 Pennsylvania Ave, I took in an outdoor show put on by the military called the Twilight Tattoo. It was wonderful and moving. Cannons going off, the band playing, and rifles being thrown into the air with surgical precision. What's not to love? After all of the memorials what stands out? While Lincoln at night was breathtaking, the hidden treasure for me was stumbling across the Korean Memorial after the sun went down. Statues of a squadron lurking through the brush are in front of an amazing wall carved with hundreds of faces in great detail. The jawdropping thing about this is the way they light it at night. A couple of small pen size spotlights on the ground in front of each statue light them with just enough emphasis that it makes you wonder if they're real. When you come in from behind all you see are the tiny lights on the ground and not the statues that they're shining on so you walk right by them without regarding their presence and head toward the wall to check it out. It isn't until you turn around that the statue squad of nearly two dozen appears out of nowhere. It's so spooky that it catches you and for a moment you're in Korea. You feel like an enemy who is about to be overrun and you just might lose that dim sum you had for dinner. Man it was cool.
So much more to write but that'll do for now...

Sitting on an airplane, sipping ginger ale, listening to trip hop, I reflect... A week in Colorado is a beautiful thing. If you ever lose your sense of wonder, Colorado is the place to find it. Every time I go somewhere I search for the hidden treasure that makes the location unique. This time out I found the town of Manitou Springs nestled in a narrow canyon between the garden of the gods and Pikes peak. This is the last great outpost for the remnants of those who were both at Woodstock or conceived at Woodstock. I've never met such a group of liberals. Really wonderful people who (like the parents on Dharma and Greg) who ran so far left that they've come full circle and are, in many ways, more conservative than those on the far right. Hemp wearing children and blunt talking (and toking) grandparents bookend neo hippie 40-50 somethings who run the many coffeehouses, art stores, and knick knack shops that have kept the gold rush town alive. Just to the east of the cog railway to the top of Pikes peak is the only true Melodrama Dinner theater that I've seen outside of Europe. Were it not for the senior citizen busses taking up all of the parking spaces and good seats, I might have stayed. The asthetic highlight to the whole trip was taking a run through the garden of the gods. A stellar trail winds through massive red rocks that jut out of the earth hundreds of feet into the air, hence the name. Some appear to balance as precariously as an egg on a toothpick. Ok there is a point to all of this.
I walked into the lobby of the Park Plaza Hotel on the morning of my seminar and said to the man behind the counter, "Is there ever a day when you don't just stare at the mountain?". Pikes peak was cleverly framed for his viewing by the front windows of the lobby and is just majestic in it's perfection. He replied with a shocking, "Honestly I never notice it." The tragedy of the statement apparently caught him off guard and he conciously looked past me and out the windows at the mountain. A smile slowly crept across his face as he awoke to wonder all over again. He stared for a long time before he spoke again and said, "I've never driven to the top. I think I will when I get off work today." "Good show" I said and turned toward the seminar room.
There's such a sermon here. I'll give you the elements; the majesty of God, our apathy infected eyes, a reawakening to wonder, a desire to draw closer and go higher. You get the picture...

In case you don't know, my job includes a great deal of travel that takes me all over the US. I'll probably do this sort of thing until such time as my family and I call a halt to the whole deal for the sake of everyone's sanity. Actually I believe this is positive for my sanity. Until I was 18 and married I spent a great deal of time in an object that moved either with wheels or wings. I'm surprised that I've planted roots in one place and one church for so long. I may be selfish here but I never feel better than when I'm moving. I've come to terms with this sickness and have found the cure to be a long drive in the country on a day that's cool enough to crack your windows a couple of inches. There's nothing like coming home after a long trip too. Slow dancing by candelight to something by Dianna Krall with your bride who is wearing the perfume you've come to know... Being attacked by two children and a dog who don't care that they're wrinkling your Kenneth Cole suit, stepping all over your Kenneth Cole shoes, or slobbering all over your Kenneth Cole tie. It's wonderful to come home. That's truly the best part of leaving. I think the problem with alot of strained marriages is that nobody ever has the coming home moments because in order to have them you have to also have the going away moments. Even the Scriptures speak about those who are in covenant having a consentual parting for 'a time'. 1 Corinthians 7:5 Defraud ye not one the other, except it be with consent for a time, that ye may give yourselves to fasting and prayer; and come together again..." Now granted, the context here is sexual but the application goes beyond that. There is a euphoric joy in those black and white photos of soldiers coming home and wives being caught up in their arms. Old cameras and adept photographers captures those moments for all eternity and as I look at those I realize that some of those couples spent (as in spending money) two years of life apart for one moment of that kind of joy. There's a richness in togetherness and sometimes apartness is the only way to rediscover it.

After that last post, I'm not sure I've got the energy to write anything else. My writing is off these days. It's not that I have no thoughts. I just don't care enough about them to record them for posterity. I did do some study on Hebrews 9 this week. I noticed that everything in the ark is a type of Christ, the manna (bread of life), the rod (tree of life), the tablets (fulfillment of the law) etc... Also noticed that the various gifts to the overcomers in Revelation (to him who overcomes I will give...) match those things/types in the ark. The hidden manna, the tree of life, etc... Pretty cool book, the Bible. Anyhow, aside from that there is a section of Heb 9 that talks about blood. (NurseAudrey should get a kick out of this) In order to cleanse something or make it holy it had to be sprinkled with blood. So by the time the priests got done offering sacrifices and making things clean and holy unto God the entire room and all of its contents would be covered and stained with blood. It must have looked like a horror movie in there. Our response in coming into a room like that would be, "Man we've got to clean this place up." Where the priests would have said, "What meaneth this? We have just forthwith cleansed the place." I mean, we don't see blood as a cleaning agent. More of a biohazard. So I've been pondering the old songs like "Are you washed in the blood" and "There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Emanuel's veins, and sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains." Sometimes it's good to take an old truth learned long ago down from the shelf, blow the dust off, and look at it again with new eyes.

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.