Perhaps God allows us "rose colored glasses" in childhood so that when we're grown-up and sober we can still draw upon some tangible sense of the better country mentioned in Hebrews 11:16, that is, of Heaven. For adults that sense, if not by now fully ignored, is rarely felt, and that only when reminiscing on the rosy years.
Childhood is the wonder-anchor, and in some ways the closest to Heaven we get before we die. Its vivid fancies and deep, exciting dreams are not silly. In fact, of all motivations I think they're probably truest to What Should Be. Passing years can jade a person and force him to believe that What Currently Is is What Should Be. So myths become useless, and one treats his own imagination like a cartoon, some airy trifle not worth attention. GK Chesterton destroys this lie when he defends fairy tales in his book, Orthodoxy. There is more import in the fairy tale--or at least in the desires that drive it--than in the "rational" stale-dom of the sophisticated.
Jesus' own words reveal His thoughts on the childlike heart: "Permit the children to come to Me; do not hinder them; for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these" (Mark 10:14).
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Oregon Road Trip, Fall '02
Mountain shadows loom
In the land of early dark.
Here the gales of November blow,
And volcanic highlands of the North Pacific
Rise, with crested peaks aglow
In the land of early dark.
Here the gales of November blow,
And volcanic highlands of the North Pacific
Rise, with crested peaks aglow
Friday, December 26, 2008
Go Hug a Tree, it's Okay
More from Charles Spurgeon:
It is the mark of a feeble mind to despise the wonders of nature because we prize the treasures of salvation. He who built the lofty skies is as much our Father as he who hath spoken to us by his own Son, and we should reverently adore HIM who in creation decketh himself with majesty and excellency, even as in revelation HE arrayeth himself in glory and beauty.
Modern fanatics who profess to be so absorbed in heavenly things that they are blind to the most marvelous of Jehovah's handiwork, should go to school, with David as the schoolmaster, and learn to "consider the heavens," and should sit with Job upon the dunghill of their pride, while the Lord rehearses the thundering stanzas of creation's greatness, until they cry with the patriarch, "I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear, but now mine eye seeth thee; wherefore, I abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes." For our part, we feel that what was worth the Lord's making, richly deserves the attention of the most cultivated and purified intellect; and we think it blasphemy against God himself to speak slightingly of his universe, as if, forsooth, we poor puny mortals were too spiritual to be interested in that matchless architecture which made the morning stars sing together and caused the sons of God to shout for joy.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
"As for man, his days are like grass; as a flower of the field, so he flourishes. When the wind has passed over it, it is no more, and its place acknowledges it no longer. But the lovingkindness of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear Him, and His righteousness to children's children, to those who keep His covenant and remember His precepts to do them."
-Psalm 103:15-18
It might just be time for me to slip a notepad in my back pocket and start tallying every common shoot-the-breeze conversation I have. I think the evidence would reveal more of them than I'd like to admit, and it would remind me that I stand among—not outside—the ranks of the common man.
Most people are aware that these autopilot mini-conversations are there, stocked up in the cerebrum, and we all employ them as lubricant in the social machine. We even poke fun at ourselves for some of them: "How about them Lakers," or "How about this weather." Others are not as obvious, and they drop from our lips so readily that we may never notice we're being unoriginal. During this past year of my life, one in particular has repeatedly muscled its way to the front of the line of conversation topics. In approximately nine out of seven days each week, I have the "time is flying" conversation. I had it yesterday with my boss while we snacked on cashews and tangerines between demolition and mixing concrete. We both couldn't believe how much work we had already performed on his house since I started there in February. Was this already the tenth week that I'd been working for him? Indeed, where has the time gone?
Later that night at my regular Tuesday gathering of other Christian men, I commented on how great it is that it's staying light out longer (another common conversation topic, or CCT for short). My friend replied that it will soon be warm enough to meet once again on the roof of the house where we gather. This primed me perfectly for the topic of Time, and I in turn said, "It seems like we were meeting on the roof just a month or two ago." It truly did. I didn't even have to close my eyes to feel like I was back on that rooftop. My skin recalled last summer's consistent warm breeze from the valley below. The memory of Trader Joe's lemonade flashed on my tongue as if I had just sipped it, sitting in a small circle on a soft blanket and discussing what we had read in our study. But that was all ten months ago.
How will I let this make me feel? Should I be glad for the sharp memory (a sign of youth) or sad that the years truly do seem to get exponentially faster (a sign of age). Annual Acceleration Syndrome was a sentiment I had always insisted I wouldn't let myself succumb to (that kind of thinking was only for youthless people who had given up and resigned at some point). Now, however, I am beginning to accept and have peace with it. As a practical explanation, it seems the more familiar you are with something, the more quickly your brain processes it, and the less energy it has to expend to understand it. This explains why a film always moves surprisingly faster the second time around. My 28th trip around the sun will be complete next month, and I find I am growing more familiar with life—more adept at its routines, ever strengthening my grasp of the seasons and seeing more clearly the cycles and predictable patterns of this earth and this life. As a result, Life gets processed more quickly. On top of that, the ever-increasing responsibilities of adulthood keep my minutes so full of activity and concern that the momentum carries me rapidly into the future. To be sure, there is still spontaneity and surprise in my life, and by no means has my joy decreased. If anything, I think my joy has grown as I have become more sober.
Life is short and, based on the pattern, I can guess that the last half of my life will pass by five times as quickly as the first. Were it not for the hope of Heaven, this news would interrupt any temporal happiness I ever found, like a cockroach in an ice cream sandwich. Thankfully, the Apostle Paul's oft-quoted words from his letter to the Philippians now serve here as anything but a shoot-the-breeze cliche. They are far more tangible to me than lemonade or soft blankets, and they offer the reason for my joy in light of this quickly fading life: "For to me to live is Christ, but to die is gain." No matter how long or short I perceive my life to feel, I rejoice that I can exhaust my earthly hours with holy passion and enjoy the fruits of this flash-bang life for Eternity. Yes, time flies, but I can be free from the fear that I haven't properly savored the year. So this is maturity.
-Psalm 103:15-18
It might just be time for me to slip a notepad in my back pocket and start tallying every common shoot-the-breeze conversation I have. I think the evidence would reveal more of them than I'd like to admit, and it would remind me that I stand among—not outside—the ranks of the common man.
Most people are aware that these autopilot mini-conversations are there, stocked up in the cerebrum, and we all employ them as lubricant in the social machine. We even poke fun at ourselves for some of them: "How about them Lakers," or "How about this weather." Others are not as obvious, and they drop from our lips so readily that we may never notice we're being unoriginal. During this past year of my life, one in particular has repeatedly muscled its way to the front of the line of conversation topics. In approximately nine out of seven days each week, I have the "time is flying" conversation. I had it yesterday with my boss while we snacked on cashews and tangerines between demolition and mixing concrete. We both couldn't believe how much work we had already performed on his house since I started there in February. Was this already the tenth week that I'd been working for him? Indeed, where has the time gone?
Later that night at my regular Tuesday gathering of other Christian men, I commented on how great it is that it's staying light out longer (another common conversation topic, or CCT for short). My friend replied that it will soon be warm enough to meet once again on the roof of the house where we gather. This primed me perfectly for the topic of Time, and I in turn said, "It seems like we were meeting on the roof just a month or two ago." It truly did. I didn't even have to close my eyes to feel like I was back on that rooftop. My skin recalled last summer's consistent warm breeze from the valley below. The memory of Trader Joe's lemonade flashed on my tongue as if I had just sipped it, sitting in a small circle on a soft blanket and discussing what we had read in our study. But that was all ten months ago.
How will I let this make me feel? Should I be glad for the sharp memory (a sign of youth) or sad that the years truly do seem to get exponentially faster (a sign of age). Annual Acceleration Syndrome was a sentiment I had always insisted I wouldn't let myself succumb to (that kind of thinking was only for youthless people who had given up and resigned at some point). Now, however, I am beginning to accept and have peace with it. As a practical explanation, it seems the more familiar you are with something, the more quickly your brain processes it, and the less energy it has to expend to understand it. This explains why a film always moves surprisingly faster the second time around. My 28th trip around the sun will be complete next month, and I find I am growing more familiar with life—more adept at its routines, ever strengthening my grasp of the seasons and seeing more clearly the cycles and predictable patterns of this earth and this life. As a result, Life gets processed more quickly. On top of that, the ever-increasing responsibilities of adulthood keep my minutes so full of activity and concern that the momentum carries me rapidly into the future. To be sure, there is still spontaneity and surprise in my life, and by no means has my joy decreased. If anything, I think my joy has grown as I have become more sober.
Life is short and, based on the pattern, I can guess that the last half of my life will pass by five times as quickly as the first. Were it not for the hope of Heaven, this news would interrupt any temporal happiness I ever found, like a cockroach in an ice cream sandwich. Thankfully, the Apostle Paul's oft-quoted words from his letter to the Philippians now serve here as anything but a shoot-the-breeze cliche. They are far more tangible to me than lemonade or soft blankets, and they offer the reason for my joy in light of this quickly fading life: "For to me to live is Christ, but to die is gain." No matter how long or short I perceive my life to feel, I rejoice that I can exhaust my earthly hours with holy passion and enjoy the fruits of this flash-bang life for Eternity. Yes, time flies, but I can be free from the fear that I haven't properly savored the year. So this is maturity.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
A Story Using Words I Have Mispronounced
(The words are in all caps and spelled phonetically in the way I used to pronounce them or read them in my head. The context should hint at what words they really are. I've also listed them at the bottom, correctly spelled. Check out www.howjsay.com to hear official pronunciation of these and other words)
About this time last year at the docks an old sea merchant MY-ZULD me into thinking I could hitch a free ride on his skiff. What luck, I thought, as my lips curled upward and I grinned out toward the frothy chop at two distant bumps, one obscured by clouds, the other lit green by the sun's favoring ray. Now I would be one of the first traders this autumn to do business with the natives of Norsen Island.
We set sail and I secured myself at the stern, counting the bills I had saved that summer and sheltering them from the wind with my frock. This free trip would allow me to buy twice as many ivory carvings as I had planned, and might even afford me an extra day or two to cavort with the sunny natives.
I should have seen from the start, however, that my fortunate circumstance was bloated with Yang, and suspiciously lacking in Yin. Ten miles out, something seemed AWE-REE. I stood up, still clutching the rail at the bow, and stepped carefully on my way toward the sinewy old man at the tiller. I reminded him that he had said he would take me to Norsen, not Durth, where it appeared we were headed. I waited for a reply; the wind shifted momentarily but his mouth moved not. Instead, from his eyes came the same impelling charisma with which he had lured me onto the boat hours earlier. A simple steady stare convinced me that my fears regarding Durth were nothing but a TCHIM-ER-AH, and that the natives there had carvings of equal quality. Something like black magic must have been at work because up until that short moment I had always known that not only were Durth natives a conniving lot, but their carvings were terribly BAY-NUHL.
It wasn't until he beached the skiff on the foggy island that my trance broke and I realized the leatherfaced prune had deceived me with a FAY-CADE. I glared into his squinty Mis-CHEE-VUS eyes, then shot a glance at his gray chin, where I caught evidence of an ancestral mark between erratic hairs. No doubt now, the knife-shaped mole proved he was a native of Durth Island himself.
Looking back, I wish I had read Captain Joseph Narwhallis' bestselling PRY-MER on maritime etiquette more carefully. I could have avoided what the Captain called an “Inevitable DAH-NEW-MENT.” He was referring to Sea Rule number 13, which warned against accepting something for nothing from a boatman. According to the captain, the final result of breaking that rule is that you will always lose something worth more than that which you accepted at no cost. It may even be your life.
Thankfully the Durth natives let me keep my life, and my coat, but it irks me to know that three months of sweat-bought salary now help fund the trifling trinkets they carve on that worthless chunk of ARCHIE-pa-LAW-GO. Still, rather than LAM-BAST that old wrinkled sea-merchant, I humbly concur with the lesson he and Captain Narwhallis taught me: nothing is free.
Mispronounced Words:
Misled
Awry
Chimerah
Banal
Facade
Mischievous (emphasis on “Mis”, not “chie”)
Primer
Denouement
Archipelago
Lambaste
About this time last year at the docks an old sea merchant MY-ZULD me into thinking I could hitch a free ride on his skiff. What luck, I thought, as my lips curled upward and I grinned out toward the frothy chop at two distant bumps, one obscured by clouds, the other lit green by the sun's favoring ray. Now I would be one of the first traders this autumn to do business with the natives of Norsen Island.
We set sail and I secured myself at the stern, counting the bills I had saved that summer and sheltering them from the wind with my frock. This free trip would allow me to buy twice as many ivory carvings as I had planned, and might even afford me an extra day or two to cavort with the sunny natives.
I should have seen from the start, however, that my fortunate circumstance was bloated with Yang, and suspiciously lacking in Yin. Ten miles out, something seemed AWE-REE. I stood up, still clutching the rail at the bow, and stepped carefully on my way toward the sinewy old man at the tiller. I reminded him that he had said he would take me to Norsen, not Durth, where it appeared we were headed. I waited for a reply; the wind shifted momentarily but his mouth moved not. Instead, from his eyes came the same impelling charisma with which he had lured me onto the boat hours earlier. A simple steady stare convinced me that my fears regarding Durth were nothing but a TCHIM-ER-AH, and that the natives there had carvings of equal quality. Something like black magic must have been at work because up until that short moment I had always known that not only were Durth natives a conniving lot, but their carvings were terribly BAY-NUHL.
It wasn't until he beached the skiff on the foggy island that my trance broke and I realized the leatherfaced prune had deceived me with a FAY-CADE. I glared into his squinty Mis-CHEE-VUS eyes, then shot a glance at his gray chin, where I caught evidence of an ancestral mark between erratic hairs. No doubt now, the knife-shaped mole proved he was a native of Durth Island himself.
Looking back, I wish I had read Captain Joseph Narwhallis' bestselling PRY-MER on maritime etiquette more carefully. I could have avoided what the Captain called an “Inevitable DAH-NEW-MENT.” He was referring to Sea Rule number 13, which warned against accepting something for nothing from a boatman. According to the captain, the final result of breaking that rule is that you will always lose something worth more than that which you accepted at no cost. It may even be your life.
Thankfully the Durth natives let me keep my life, and my coat, but it irks me to know that three months of sweat-bought salary now help fund the trifling trinkets they carve on that worthless chunk of ARCHIE-pa-LAW-GO. Still, rather than LAM-BAST that old wrinkled sea-merchant, I humbly concur with the lesson he and Captain Narwhallis taught me: nothing is free.
Mispronounced Words:
Misled
Awry
Chimerah
Banal
Facade
Mischievous (emphasis on “Mis”, not “chie”)
Primer
Denouement
Archipelago
Lambaste
Monday, October 29, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Toying With an Internet Scammer
A month ago I posted a couch for sale on Craigslist and received the following fishy reply from one “Micheal Stone”:
Hi, is the item still available for sale?
Giving “Micheal” the benefit of the doubt, I wrote him back:
Yes it is. Let me know if you're interested.
Mr. Stone soon responded:
Thank you for the prompt response to my mail enquiry am quite satisfied with the condition of the item and price.Am very much interested in buying the item from you and i would like to make an outright purchase immediately so i will advice that you withdraw the advert from the web, I will be paying with a certified check. Furthermore my mover will be coming over for the pick up as i might not be presently am not chanced to do that but am OK with the information from the ad.I will need the following information details to make payment arrangement. available for the pick up myself i would have love to come and look it up but
1. Your full name to be on the Payment.
2. Your postal address.
3. Your phone number both land and mobile.
4. Your postal code.
Send me the following information as soon as possible, So that your payment can be mail out to you asap, I hope to read back from you soon.
Regards,
Stone
A friend recently told me about an elaborate, well-acted scam she had fallen for at the mall. Fortunately, she didn't end up buying the “diamonds” from the “poor migrant worker who just needed a bus ticket back home.” Had I indulged Mr. Stone's requests, it likely would have become clear after several emails exactly how he was planning to scam me. Instead, I decided to nip his plan in the bud and just have a little fun with him, which included giving him the address to my home at the city dump.
The reply:
Sure!
My full name is Vincent Jonas Harvebinder, but my best friends just call me Jon. I live at 14747 San Fernando Road in Sylmar, CA 91342. It's kind of a stinky neighborhood but I still like it.
Unfortunately I can't give you my phone number because the CIA has wiretapped both my cell phone and my land line! In fact, I sure hope they aren't reading this email!!!
Why don't you just give me your phone number and I'll call you from a phone booth?
Vincent
p.s. I am also trying to get rid of my mosquito collection. Might you be interested??
For some reason I still haven't heard back from him.
Hi, is the item still available for sale?
Giving “Micheal” the benefit of the doubt, I wrote him back:
Yes it is. Let me know if you're interested.
Mr. Stone soon responded:
Thank you for the prompt response to my mail enquiry am quite satisfied with the condition of the item and price.Am very much interested in buying the item from you and i would like to make an outright purchase immediately so i will advice that you withdraw the advert from the web, I will be paying with a certified check. Furthermore my mover will be coming over for the pick up as i might not be presently am not chanced to do that but am OK with the information from the ad.I will need the following information details to make payment arrangement. available for the pick up myself i would have love to come and look it up but
1. Your full name to be on the Payment.
2. Your postal address.
3. Your phone number both land and mobile.
4. Your postal code.
Send me the following information as soon as possible, So that your payment can be mail out to you asap, I hope to read back from you soon.
Regards,
Stone
A friend recently told me about an elaborate, well-acted scam she had fallen for at the mall. Fortunately, she didn't end up buying the “diamonds” from the “poor migrant worker who just needed a bus ticket back home.” Had I indulged Mr. Stone's requests, it likely would have become clear after several emails exactly how he was planning to scam me. Instead, I decided to nip his plan in the bud and just have a little fun with him, which included giving him the address to my home at the city dump.
The reply:
Sure!
My full name is Vincent Jonas Harvebinder, but my best friends just call me Jon. I live at 14747 San Fernando Road in Sylmar, CA 91342. It's kind of a stinky neighborhood but I still like it.
Unfortunately I can't give you my phone number because the CIA has wiretapped both my cell phone and my land line! In fact, I sure hope they aren't reading this email!!!
Why don't you just give me your phone number and I'll call you from a phone booth?
Vincent
p.s. I am also trying to get rid of my mosquito collection. Might you be interested??
For some reason I still haven't heard back from him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
