Friday, September 10, 2004
Welcome Back Old Friend
I have a friend who comes to visit every year in September and stays through January. You may think it a long visit (the Queen Mother does) but for me, it ends way too soon.
For these five short months our lives will between intertwined with drama and comedy and pure action. There will be tears of joy and tears of shame. There will be glory. There will be great suffering.
And after our time is up, we will know that we have lived.
So last night I welcomed back with open arms my old friend...
the National Football League!
p.s. check it out - on October 25 the Bengals are playing on Monday Night - stunning but true
I have a friend who comes to visit every year in September and stays through January. You may think it a long visit (the Queen Mother does) but for me, it ends way too soon.
For these five short months our lives will between intertwined with drama and comedy and pure action. There will be tears of joy and tears of shame. There will be glory. There will be great suffering.
And after our time is up, we will know that we have lived.
So last night I welcomed back with open arms my old friend...
the National Football League!
p.s. check it out - on October 25 the Bengals are playing on Monday Night - stunning but true
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Girls Are Just Gross
I've got a four-year-old girl. She is all Barbi. All lace. All dollhouse. All bows and bobby sox.
But she has two barbarians for older brothers.
In the middle of a long drive, the oldest barbarian said, "Let's play 'I Spy'."
"I see something that is green," he starts.
Shyly, demurly, my little princess speaks.
"My boogers!"
What can I say. She is her mother's daughter.
I've got a four-year-old girl. She is all Barbi. All lace. All dollhouse. All bows and bobby sox.
But she has two barbarians for older brothers.
In the middle of a long drive, the oldest barbarian said, "Let's play 'I Spy'."
"I see something that is green," he starts.
Shyly, demurly, my little princess speaks.
"My boogers!"
What can I say. She is her mother's daughter.
Love and the Man of the Street
"True love is a matter of loving the very person you see. The emphasis is not on loving the perfections, but on loving the person you see, no matter what perfections or imperfections that person might possess." - Soren Kierkegaard
Yesterday I thought of this man I know. He is messed-up. Seriously messed-up. Stack mental disorder upon abuse upon being an abuser. He is both victim and criminal. He is both innocent and blood-red guilty.
And to me he has often been a real nuisance. We have logged hours of conversation. I have stumbled through hundreds of prayers over him. All this, and he seems to have changed very little, if at all.
I believe the most simple act of loving God is loving people. And with him, I have tried. More often than not that has meant acting out a love for him hoping my heart would get the hint at some point.
The day I knew I loved him, he stood before a judge. Standing there, the baliff demanded that he take his hands out of his pockets. Immediately, he raised them up, holding them out to his sides. He kept them like for the rest of his session.
It seemed like such a child-like thing to do. Something in me broke for him. I could see him as that child who experienced the atrosities of man's inhumanity (or is it his humanity).
I haven't seen him since the spring. He has disappeared. He has probably gone back to living on the streets in any one of half a dozen major cities here in the west. I prayed for him yesterday. I imagined his face. I tried to see him. I prayed a hope of life for him. I questioned myself knowing that life has been simpler for me since he split. I tried to see him more clearly and remind myself that I love him. Perfections and imperfections all.
He needs to have someone who will do that for him. I know this. I know this because I need someone to do that for me. And if there is not enough for him here, then somehow I think there can't be enough for me either.
"True love is a matter of loving the very person you see. The emphasis is not on loving the perfections, but on loving the person you see, no matter what perfections or imperfections that person might possess." - Soren Kierkegaard
Yesterday I thought of this man I know. He is messed-up. Seriously messed-up. Stack mental disorder upon abuse upon being an abuser. He is both victim and criminal. He is both innocent and blood-red guilty.
And to me he has often been a real nuisance. We have logged hours of conversation. I have stumbled through hundreds of prayers over him. All this, and he seems to have changed very little, if at all.
I believe the most simple act of loving God is loving people. And with him, I have tried. More often than not that has meant acting out a love for him hoping my heart would get the hint at some point.
The day I knew I loved him, he stood before a judge. Standing there, the baliff demanded that he take his hands out of his pockets. Immediately, he raised them up, holding them out to his sides. He kept them like for the rest of his session.
It seemed like such a child-like thing to do. Something in me broke for him. I could see him as that child who experienced the atrosities of man's inhumanity (or is it his humanity).
I haven't seen him since the spring. He has disappeared. He has probably gone back to living on the streets in any one of half a dozen major cities here in the west. I prayed for him yesterday. I imagined his face. I tried to see him. I prayed a hope of life for him. I questioned myself knowing that life has been simpler for me since he split. I tried to see him more clearly and remind myself that I love him. Perfections and imperfections all.
He needs to have someone who will do that for him. I know this. I know this because I need someone to do that for me. And if there is not enough for him here, then somehow I think there can't be enough for me either.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
Throwing Pearls At Swine
Imagine if we treated each person in front of us like people -as if they matter, like they count. Instead of labeling them and treating them like a member of what-ever grouping we have chosen for them (christian, non-christian, gay, straight, left-wing extremist, member of the right-wing conspiracy).
Like this guy...
http://www.slate.com/id/2105965
Imagine if we treated each person in front of us like people -as if they matter, like they count. Instead of labeling them and treating them like a member of what-ever grouping we have chosen for them (christian, non-christian, gay, straight, left-wing extremist, member of the right-wing conspiracy).
Like this guy...
http://www.slate.com/id/2105965
Curious Thought
"Jesus came to raise the dead.
The only qualification for the gift of the Gospel is to be dead.
You don't have to be smart.
You don't have to be good.
You don't have to be wise.
You don't have to be wonderful.
You don't have to be anything...
You just have to be dead."
Robert Farrar Capon
"Jesus came to raise the dead.
The only qualification for the gift of the Gospel is to be dead.
You don't have to be smart.
You don't have to be good.
You don't have to be wise.
You don't have to be wonderful.
You don't have to be anything...
You just have to be dead."
Robert Farrar Capon
My Olympic Highlight
Around the time that I had had enough of the olympic hype (back to you, Bob), I turned the T.V. on in the afternoon.
Olympic Speed Walking. On Univision.
It was the men's event. A hoard of men, swishing their hips, swinging their elbows. All being narrated in what is to me a foreign language. They probably had a two-time Spanish gold medalist from the 80's in the booth doing the play-by-play.
I was drawn in. The drama. The thrill. The weirdness of it all.
My sons sat next to me.
One said, "Are those boys... or girls?"
"Boys," I said, eyes still glued.
"And girls," said the other.
"Boys!"
"And girls," they both affirmed.
Around the time that I had had enough of the olympic hype (back to you, Bob), I turned the T.V. on in the afternoon.
Olympic Speed Walking. On Univision.
It was the men's event. A hoard of men, swishing their hips, swinging their elbows. All being narrated in what is to me a foreign language. They probably had a two-time Spanish gold medalist from the 80's in the booth doing the play-by-play.
I was drawn in. The drama. The thrill. The weirdness of it all.
My sons sat next to me.
One said, "Are those boys... or girls?"
"Boys," I said, eyes still glued.
"And girls," said the other.
"Boys!"
"And girls," they both affirmed.
Today's Morning Soundtrack
At 8:00. Teenage Fanclub - Mellow Doubt
At 8:30. Old McDonald - Frank Sinatra
At 9:00. Don't Be Cruel - Bobby Brown
It could prove to be an interesting kind of day.
At 8:00. Teenage Fanclub - Mellow Doubt
At 8:30. Old McDonald - Frank Sinatra
At 9:00. Don't Be Cruel - Bobby Brown
It could prove to be an interesting kind of day.
