The Night Writer
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/
Illuminating fun, faith, family and foolishness.en-us2009-05-06T04:05+00:00And back again
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1241495257.shtml
When I was younger the weddings I went to far outnumbered the funerals. That ratio is changing, it seems, to something like 50-50, but I'm hoping to get through this summer...The Night Writer2009-05-05T03:05+00:00
As I wrote in my last post, my grandmother Lizey passed away just short of being 102 years old. I returned to the family hometown for the service and to the same funeral home where I've attended four other family funerals. I knew this wasn't going to be the typical affair, however, when my brother called my cell from the visitation while I was still on the highway heading south, an hour and a half away. He was there with aunts, uncles and cousins and it sounded like there was a party going on in the background.
When I got there Grandma was laid out in peace, the only one it seemed like who wasn't laughing, hugging, telling stories. This has always been a loud branch of the family, and all the stories were familiar ones and I think she would have liked seeing everyone together again and hearing the same old tales...the kind of tales that make you start to laugh as soon as the first few words are out of the teller's mouth and you anticipate what's to come. In one corner my oldest uncle was holding forth and in another corner his oldest son was doing the same, perhaps even more expressively, the circle unbroken. Three of her four surviving children were there, almost all of the grandchildren, a handful of the great-grandchildren, and once I caught a glimpse of the great-great-grandchild whose mother had been about the same age the last time I had seen her. I was told that Grandma's remaining sons had decided that the last $100 of her estate was going to my own daughter, who marries later this month.
The funeral was the next day and the six grandsons were the pall-bearers. It had been a long while since the six of us — all of us within five years of age of each other — had been together but the elbowing, nudging and mild-horseplay seemed to pick up without missing a beat. The funeral director brought the six of us — Robbie, Roger, me, my brother, Kevin and Kent (who we call Fred) — together to run through the drill with us. After a few minutes she smiled and said, "We usually like to have the pall-bearers sit together in a group, but in your case I think we'll split you up." I told her that if she really wanted to get our attention she'd have to threaten to "beat the pee-waddin" out of us, and Grandma would understand. She allowed how she'd keep that in reserve.
The service was a sweet celebration. The wife of one of the great-grandkids sang two beautiful songs and the pastor from her life-long church, First Baptist, spoke of her great contributions the history and fellowship of the church and the rich heritage passed on into the lives of the family as he had witnessed over the previous 24 hours. Through the course of his brief talk he mentioned "First Baptist" about eight times. Later I told Aunt Sis that, given Grandma's age, I wasn't sure if the pastor had been referring to the church or to Lizey.
After the service the short procession moved out from the funeral home behind the hearse, heading through the drizzle for the Hodge-Enloe cemetery out on old highway UU. In the country, cemeteries are usually named after the families that founded them or the farms where they are located (often one and the same). Here's something else about the country: when a funeral procession passes by, everyone on either side of the road pulls over. In the city, even with a police escort, people crowd you, even cut through the line.
Even in the mist and drizzle that day the hills were a beautiful green as we made it out on the old road, gravel the last mile or so, and there was a fresh smell to the air. It's an old land, and an old cemetery, originally founded in 1889. I knew people with the same last names as those on the stones we walked past, carrying the casket, but I didn't know any of those...except that I did, if that makes sense to you.
When the short prayer and final reading were finished we turned and walked back across the rough, wet grass to our cars. There was rain, and there was gloom and there was the new bright green on the old hills behind, around and in front of us, and the smell of spring and renewal.
]]>On a day like today
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...The Night Writer2009-04-09T20:04+00:00
My birthday was last week, and one of the presents I received was a collection of daily excerpts from the writings of German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer (thanks, Ben). Bonhoeffer was executed by the Nazis on April 9, 1945, only days before Hitler committed suicide and the arrival of allied troops in Berlin. This morning my book made note of this sad anniversary, and it reminded me of the post I did on this date back in 2005, which was also the week Pope John Paul II died. Bonhoeffer's words are timeless, mine much less so, but his always stir me so much I decided to re-run that post here again today.
"This is the end - but for me, the beginning of life." Those were not the words of Pope John Paul II, but of German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, executed 60 years ago today by the Nazis in the closing days of World War II.
I thought of these words this week as the world honored the Pope and I listened to commentators in every media try to put their political spin on what a life of faith should look like. And when I thought of their words in the context of this anniversary, I could only shake my head at the subtleties of God and offer a bitter smile. Bitter at the foolishness and presumption, but a smile nonetheless in order to share in the laugh God must have been having. Bonhoeffer is one of my heroes. Supremely talented and perceptive, he saw spiritual truth in a clear light and threw himself into writing it down and vigorously living it out in total commitment to the lives of those around him, yet he was also capable of the loneliest touch of inner doubt. He was one of the earliest and most unyielding voices in opposition to Hitler as far back as 1933 and struggled to shine a light on Hitler's co-opting of the German church and to reconstruct Christian ethics.
Fearing for Bonhoeffer's life, his friends arranged a position for him in America ahead of the coming war, only to have him turn around and return to Germany almost immediately, saying:
I have made a mistake in coming to America. I must live through this difficult period of our national history with the Christian people of Germany. I will have no right to participate in the reconstruction of Christian life in Germany after the war if I do not share the trials of this time with my people.
A pacifist, he ultimately saw the need to try and "throw a spoke into the wheel" of the Nazi war machine and was arrested in 1943 and accused of being part of a plot to kill Hitler. Over the next two years Bonhoeffer wrote prodigiously and powerfully, cramming each paragraph with stunning clarity and revelation almost as if he sensed his time was short (he was 39 – younger than I am now – when he died). As he watched the German church crumble around him and embrace the unbiblical tenets of Nazism, he exhorted his followers and his country that obedience and belief were bound together, saying "Only he who believes is obedient, and only he who obeys, believes."
You can find out much more about his incredible and courageous story here on the pages hosted by the United States Memorial Holocaust Museum, but let me return to the present and the spirit of our age so much in evidence the past few weeks, and what Bonhoeffer might wryly refer to as another example of
"the vigilant religious instinct of man for the place where grace is to be obtained at the cheapest price."
What he meant was that we all too easily fall into iniquity by trying to determine for ourselves and by our own standards what pleases God. Today there is a lot of easy talk about spirituality as we boomers age and find that our first commandment – "Love thyself" – doesn’t sustain. Christian or otherwise we seek to set our own standards for what is "good enough," forgetting what it cost those who came before us to raise God’s standard. Journalist David Brooks calls it "building a house of obligation on a foundation of choice," or, "orthodoxy without obedience."
You can be thought to be spiritual merely for acknowledging there is a need for spirituality without admitting that you have any responsibility to live up to it in any way. It is a spirituality that honors teachers but not a Messiah. It is what Bonhoeffer called "cheap grace" and described as being the greatest threat to the Church. The threat, however, wasn’t from the world but rather from within the Church.
The complacency of cheap grace allowed Nazism to subvert the gospel in the German church, and the spiritual complacency of America in the 50s and 60s germinated the seeds that bear so much bitter fruit in our culture today. (Btw, you might find it an interesting study to compare the origins, thinking and actions of the original Nazis with the origins, thinking and actions of those who are the first to label others as Nazis today.) It is this "cheap grace" with which we try to cover a multitude of sins while projecting a rich aura of tolerance and enlightenment. As Bonhoeffer wrote in his classic, "The Cost of Discipleship":
This is what we mean by cheap grace, the grace which amounts to the justification of sin without the justification of the repentant sinner who departs from sin and from whom sin departs. Cheap grace is not the kind of forgiveness of sin which frees us from the toils of sin. Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves.
Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without Church discipline, Communion without confession, absolution without contrition. Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the Cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate.
Costly grace is the treasure hidden in the field; for the sake of it a man will gladly go and sell all that he has. It is the pearl of great price to buy which the merchant will sell all his goods. It is the kingly rule of Christ, for whose sake a man will pluck out the eye which causes him to stumble, it is the call of Jesus Christ at which the disciple leaves his nets and follows Him.
Costly grace is the gospel which must be sought again and again, the gift which must be asked for, the door at which a man must knock.
Such grace is costly because it calls us to follow, and it is grace because it calls us to follow Jesus Christ. It is costly because it costs a man his life, and it is grace because it gives a man the only true life. It is costly because it condemns sin and grace because it justifies the sinner. Above all, it is costly because it cost God the life of His son: 'ye were bought at a price,' and what has cost God much cannot be cheap for us. Above all, it is grace because God did not reckon His Son too dear a price to pay for our life, but delivered Him up for us. Costly grace is the Incarnation of God.
In what I have read of the life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and - though I am not a Catholic - what I have seen in the life of Pope John Paul II, I sense they both understood that their own lives were not too dear a price to pay for the sake of future generations. As Bonhoeffer wrote in one of his letters from prison:
"The ultimate question for a responsible man to ask is not how he is to extricate himself heroically from the affair, but how the coming generation shall continue to live."
Notes: For anyone interested in gaining a deeper sense of Dietrich Bonhoeffer's life and vision I highly recommend "The Cost of Discipleship" and "Letters and Papers from Prison" as a start (don't expect to rush right through these, however). "Ethics" and "Life Together" go further into what a thriving life in the spirit and in fellowship with others is about for those who want more. There are also two excellent DVDs available. Especially moving is "Hanged on a Twisted Cross," surprisingly and effectively narrated by Ed Asner and Mike Farrell, and the very polished "Bonhoeffer" from Martin Doblmeier.
One of the things that Bonhoeffer wrote while he was in prison was the heart-rending microcasm of despair and hope in the poem "Who Am I?" It's one that I've had posted on the wall of my office at work for years.
Who Am I?
Who am I? They often tell me
I would step from my cell’s confinement
calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
like a squire from his country-house.
Who am I? They often tell me
I would walk to my warders
freely and friendly and clearly
as though it were mine to command.
Who am I? They also tell me
I would bear the days of misfortune
equably, smilingly, proudly,
like one accustomed to win.
Am I then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
tossing in expectation of great events,
powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.
Who am I? This or the Other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
and before myself a contemptible, woe-begone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army
fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!
]]>The Depths of the Night
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1236212058.shtml
I was combing through my blog archives earlier looking for a study that I've previously cited because I want to use it in another post that I'm working on. In the...The Night Writer2009-03-05T00:03+00:00
A Beast in the Night
It's two a.m. and the beast slides in under the bedroom door while I'm sleeping, a darkness deeper than the dark. I feel his weight as he sits on my chest and the tingling sensation of the tips of his talons as he takes my head and turns it slightly to face him. "Let's talk," he hisses.
This implies conversation, but it is one-sided. Doom seems to be the theme, oppression the objective, but I'm not paying too much attention to specifics as I sort through and catalog the degrees of my awareness. The house is quiet and still. No strange lights from outside, no smell of smoke through the screened windows. My wife rests peacefully beside me. There is just this...thing, hunkering down, pressing on my thorax. My breathing seems shallow; does it have to be? I fill my lungs several times, deeply. Breathing is good, the weight remains. I experimentally try shifting my position.
"Ah-ah," says the beast, "does it hurt when I do this?"
Actually, no, nothing hurts. I easily move my arm and place my hand below my collarbone. The river courses deep and wide and steady beneath my fingertips in a familiar rhythm. My skin is cool and dry and yet I know the beast has found something, deep within. A tiny flame of fear, like a pilot light, and now he breathes on it and his very breath is combustible - the flame roars, seeking more fuel, wanting to consume me. In the light of day I hardly notice the steady but small flame; now in the dark every flicker seems to cast an ominous shadow. This is beyond reason, but reason I must: there is money in the bank, we are whole, the jobs are good, the basement will be dry again. I am fine and no weapon formed against us will prosper.
The beast is unimpressed, and answers each thought with a "But..." of his own, his own butt and haunches squeezing against my ribs. The debate goes on quietly for an hour. I should get up. I should get some water. I should change the scenery, but I feel trapped. "Yes...trapped," the beast says, "trapped, trapped, trapped." This is going nowhere. Reason is not sufficient, and argument is ineffective. If he won't listen to me, then I won't listen to him. I deliberately turn my mind to the old songs, the songs of deliverance and praise, I repeat them to myself, sometimes running verses together or in different order, simply using what comes to mind, from another pilot light, a garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness, replacing fear with power, strength and a sound mind.
The darkness in the room changes perceptibly. It's nowhere near dawn, but it seems lighter somehow. Peace returns, if sleep does not. At 4:00 a.m. I'm aware that my wife is awake, lying quietly in the dark. I speak softly, "Are you awake?"
"Yes. Why are you?"
I tell her what happened. She draws closer, hooks one of her legs over one of mine, her arm brushes the last traces of the beast from my chest.
"I'm feeling better," I say.
This also reminds me of something else that I've written here before, a quote from Edwin Louis Cole: "Fear is the belief that something I cannot see will come to pass. Faith is the belief that something I cannot see will come to pass."
Which will you choose to believe?
I will say of the LORD, "He is my refuge and my fortress; My God, in Him I will trust."...You shall not
be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day, nor of the pestilence
that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday.
— Psalm 91: 2, 5-6
]]>Wondering Where the Lions Are
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...The Night Writer2009-01-16T06:01+00:00 I had another dream about lions at the door
They weren't half as frightening as they were before
But I'm thinking about eternity
Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me...
— Bruce Cockburn, "Wondering Where the Lions Are"
I'm a few minutes from sleep yet, but this song comes to me tonight. It's been some week. On my last post, the one with the picture of a shark flying out of the water, Hayden asked, "Shark Week?" To which I replied, "Yes, and I'm wearing sealskin underwear."
Last Friday I had a meeting with our CEO who told me our business was heading into an interesting week. I'm guessing that most people's jobs, when they get "interesting" probably don't involve the media. My job, however, does and it turned out that two unrelated events were heading our way that the local and even national press would find hard to ignore. Neither were pleasant, and neither were a shock, but it was surprising for them to fall in such proximity to each other. My job as well is two-fold: messages for the media and for our employees — and only one of those two groups enjoys bad news.
One, of course, was layoffs. It was almost a relief for the crew, however, as folks had known it was coming and it had been stressful for many while waiting to find out how bad and how deep, while calculating one's own prospects to stay or go. Even if you were relatively safe it's hard not to ponder what you'd do while hurtling toward the inevitable. It was a sobering week, though our portion of the business was relatively unscathed. Still, we're a small group and even a few losses are felt; no one is nameless or faceless. Even if the cup passes you by it's hard not to think of the individuals and families involved. It does tend to focus you a bit, especially if you think, "What if it had been me?"
Same with riding in a crashing airplane. The news today of a US Airways jet taking off from LaGuardia and ending up in the Hudson River — miraculously without loss of life — is the type of story that you can't help but picture yourself belted in and, again, hurtling toward the inevitable, with only moments to review your decisions, regrets and priorities. Now there's no time to change anything, barely time to pray, and yet how heavy some choices must be as they seem to drag across your mind. "If I get out of this..." you might think. Then what? I thought, this afternoon after reading the news, of the time on that Iowa highway in the winter white-out when I moved to the left and the semi-truck careened through those on the right, taking others but not me. Changes were made, and here I am, the man I am today.
I had another chance. Those on the airplane today have another chance. Those in my office, whether staying or departing, each will have another chance, though it may come to us in different ways. Rather than be scary, or depressing, it becomes stimulating, even after the adrenaline fades and only clarity remains. And then the words of another Bruce Cockburn song come to my, and I can smile.
Don't the hours grow shorter as the days go by
You never get to stop and open your eyes
One day you're waiting for the axe to fall
And next you're dazzled by the beauty of it all
When you're lovers in a dangerous time
Lovers in a dangerous time
These fragile bodies of touch and taste
This vibrant skin this hair like lace
Spirits open to the thrust of grace
Never a breath you can afford to waste
When you're lovers in a dangerous time
Lovers in a dangerous time
When you're lovers in a dangerous time
Lovers in a dangerous time
When you're lovers in a dangerous time
Sometimes you're made to feel as if your love's a crime
Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight
Got to kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight
When you're lovers in a dangerous time...
We've got some daylight coming to us. It may take awhile, but it's coming. Be ready.
]]>Catching the Ghost Train to Hawaii
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1231903979.shtml
...The Night Writer2009-01-14T03:01+00:00
It's six fargin' degrees below zero as I trundle to the light rail station tonight. I'm bundled up in "Big Blue", my below-the-knee length parka lined with down, thinsulate and cashmere, and a collar that zips up under my nose, and I've got on ear-muffs and a woolen hackers cap from Ireland. Big Blue also has a hood which I seldom use because I think hoods on coats make you look like you're in third grade, or like you're a dork, or a third-grade dork, which may be the dorkiest of all. In this cold, however, I have no shame and I also figure no one can recognize me with the hood pulled up over my cap and ear-muffs and fastened in front of my face anyway.
In this kind of weather I board at the LRT's terminus in the Warehouse District because there's almost always a train waiting there to start its run and it's nicer to wait in the train car rather than waiting for it a couple of blocks farther down the line. Tonight there is a train waiting, but when I try to get on the doors won't open. Then the driver speaks over the PA: "This train is not in service." It looks plenty serviceable to me, especially when it departs — empty — a few moments later. There is no other train in sight at the moment as the lights of the Ghost Train disappear toward the Nicollet Mall where it will no doubt tantalize other commuters before leaving them in the cold as well.
With the train's departure, however, I now have an unobstructed view of the front of a bar called Sneaky Pete's, immediately on the other side of the track. The front of the establishment features large plate glass windows and on one of the windows, positioned immediately under a neon Blue Moon Brewing Co. sign and hard up against the window, is a large flat-screen TV, facing the tracks. No one in the bar could possibly watch this TV, but people outside can. The TV is tuned to The Golf Channel, and it is showing scenes of PGA pros in their short-sleeve golf shirts practicing at Waialea Country Club in Hawaii for this week's Sony Open. I watch slack-jawed, with frost from my moustache thawing and dripping onto my lips, as Anthony Kim and Geoff Ogilvy and others roll puts across a High-Def green that could be called emerald green if emeralds took steroids, and just looking at it makes me wiggle my toes deep inside my mukluks.
Somehow the January wind starts to feel softer and, I swear, I think I can smell coconut oil wafting toward me on it. The angle of my shoulders, until now hunched up against my neck, drops by about six degrees and I loosen the hood and lower the zipper at my neck a couple of inches as I eye a bunker shot from a beautiful white sand hazard. No, wait, it's really a snow bank as the clanging bells of the approaching train take me out of my reverie.
Is it too early to get my clubs down out of the garage attic?
]]>One year on
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...The Night Writer2008-10-29T03:10+00:00
I was wearing my dark charcoal-colored suit at church Sunday and at one point as I reached my left arm across my chest I could feel a stiff piece of paper in the inside pocket of the jacket. I didn't need to reach into the pocket to see what the strange weight over my heart was; I already knew it was the notes I had written to myself for delivering the eulogy at my father's funeral. The notes have been there every time I've worn the suit in the past year and I just haven't gotten around to taking them out.
My father died on October 29 last year so we didn't have to wait too long to start marking the significant passages: first Thanksgiving without him, first Christmas without him, first wedding anniversary, first golf season, first Father's Day, first birthday — all without him. The holidays early on weren't too weird. Sure, they were strange, but his passing was still so new and close to mind that we were still in the bubble of grief and relief that surrounds you in the aftermath of a wasting disease. The December wedding anniversary would have been their 51st and as the day passed it was amazing to think how blissfully unaware we were of what was in store while we celebrated the 50th.
The other times during the year I didn't dwell so much on the thoughts as they came, other than to take a deep breath. This past week, however, has seemed to crawl by and many times I have stopped to think, "last year at this time, I was answering my cell phone in the middle of an office party" or "at this time on this day last year I was in an airplane" or "I was at the hospital".
And on Wednesday it will be one year and I will think of the hectic day I spent 365 days ago trying to tie up enough loose ends at work, knowing that I was likely going to be gone for a few days. I will not be able to remember what it was that I was working on that was so important, but I will remember laying back in my recliner at home, wondering if I was ready (and not for the office) and I will think about the phone call that came that evening, and of Faith coming home and me not being able to say anything to her, and not having to say anything to her because she could just tell.
And I will think about pieces of paper in the breast pocket of a suitcoat, and how sometimes even a casual movement will remind me of a certain stiffness over my heart that is likely to remain awhile longer.
]]>Name your price
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1224773194.shtml
“Right is still right, even if nobody is doing it. Wrong is still wrong, even if everybody is doing it.” ...The Night Writer2008-10-23T14:10+00:00“Right is still right, even if nobody is doing it. Wrong is still wrong, even if everybody is doing it.”
–- St. Augustine
Tuesday's post about the role and necessity of hope reminded me of something I wrote way back in the early days of this blog about having integrity. Having hope is an important part of being a person of character and integrity because it gives you a vision for the future and a picture of what you want to be like. One of the reasons that hopelessness, on the other hand, removes moral restraint is because a fatalistic outlook sees no benefit in the present for not taking the easiest path or pursuing the most gratifying action.
In my old post I used the story of a man I knew of whose hope -- and integrity -- didn't fail him in a time of great stress. It's a great illustration of how doing the right thing can not only bring peace but triumph and I hope it is an encouragement for all who read it. Here's the main part of the original piece:
Have you ever struggled to do the right thing on your job or in your business while it seemed like everyone else was getting ahead doing the wrong thing?
Several years ago I talked at length with a man by the name of Ronnie Carroll who had an amazing story. In the late '80s Ronnie owned a satellite TV dealership in Tallahassee, FL. This is a great business to be in in that part of Florida because it is almost impossible to get TV reception there unless you have a dish.
Ronnie was having a tough time, however, because he was the only dealer in the area who refused to sell illegal decoders that allowed folks to unscramble HBO and the like without having to pay a fee. His potential customers would hear his policy and go on down the road and buy their equipment from a dealer that would also sell them the pirate decoders.
For months Ronnie watched business go out the door. He eventually had to close his shop and try to operate his business from his home. Ronnie prayed throughout the winter, asking God to "judge his cause" and seeking direction on whether he should find another line of business.
That spring a couple of gentlemen from the FCC showed up at Ronnie's door. They said that Washington had made it a priority to crack down on illegal decoders and they were starting in his area. Their investigation had already shown that Ronnie was the only dealer in the area who wasn’t selling the devices and they wanted him to be in charge of collecting the pirate decoders. All dish owners were being told they had a 30-day grace period to turn in their outlaw decoders and pay Ronnie a $300 "disposal fee" or face prosecution. Simultaneously many of his one-time competitors were facing prosecution themselves and were going to find it hard to stay in business.
It also turned out that the company that made the bootleg devices also made legal decoders. Since the dishes wouldn’t work without some kind of decoder the FCC required the manufacturer to provide Ronnie with a line of credit to buy legal decoders to sell to the people turning in their outlaw equipment.
"Overnight," Ronnie said, "I suddenly had people crammed in my living room and lined up down my driveway to turn in their devices and buy new decoders and subscriptions. There were judges, lawyers and police officers in line. I bought a sign that said, 'As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord,' and put it by my front door." Immediately Ronnie’s business went from barely surviving to grossing more than $80,000 a month. Several newspapers and television stations interviewed him and he shared his story with all he talked to. When I last talked to him years ago his business was still thriving.
One moral to this story is that God doesn’t move quickly: He moves suddenly. It may not look like anything is going on, but His blessing is already on the way and in one moment to the next everything can change. Heaven forbid that the moment right before that is when we give in. When the FCC rang Ronnie’s doorbell he no doubt thought it was a bill collector, and not the answer to his prayers. We need to expect God’s faithfulness, and don’t let our actions or attitudes succumb to what appears to be reality.
What is the price you put on your honesty and integrity? Will you sell it – like Esau – for some piddling and short-term gain? We live in a world full of hustlers, always trying to shade themselves a little edge here and there. The dismaying thing to me is not that this happens, but for what little amounts people are willing to trade their name and integrity. The thing about a path that is straight and narrow is that there are no corners we can cut and still stay on it.
Proverbs 22:1 says, "A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver or gold." Temptation is always around to provide opportunity and justification; when exposed to the light, however, these justifications are shown to be flimsy and selfish. Likewise, we may not see the true value of our reputation until we ourselves are exposed, and by then it's too late. What we get never seems equal to what we give up. Indeed, it is "too late" the moment we cheat, not the moment we get caught.
Integrity is not something that can be taken away from us -– we can only give it away. We need to be careful that in our efforts to make a name for ourselves that we don’t end up giving that name away.
]]>A little romance
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1223415665.shtml
...The Night Writer2008-10-07T21:10+00:00
Some have asked what kind of of writer I'd like to be, and my answer is, "Well compensated." Fact is, I'm still trying a few things out but there does seem to be a lucrative market for Romance fiction. Sure, I wouldn't want to put my real name on it (speaking as a guy who's blogged for almost four years under an alias), something dashing like, oh, Roman Teeque. Let's see...how hard can it be?
Rolf drew her to him. Though his embrace was tender, his arms around her were like the branches of the mightiest oak; she marvelled that the giant could be so gentle.
“I would do anything for you,” he breathed. His voice was sunlight through the trees, falling on her in a forest clearing. His scent was of exotic spices and of the tradewinds that had first brought him to her. She looked into the eyes that were as blue and cool as a spring-fed mountain lake. They were still waters, yet she could see the leviathan stirring in the depths, sense it rising in passion. Her lips parted almost of their own volition. But no…
She tossed her head, shaking her titian hair and put her hand to his broad chest, as if to push him away. Instead it lingered. Looking to her hand, she whispered, “Would you climb the highest mountain?”
“Aye,” he said, “and reach up and bring you back a star as well.”
“Would you swim to the bottom of the deepest sea?”
“Yes, and bring you the brightest pearl, though Neptune himself hold it in his briny hands.”
She felt a shiver from the very core of her being. “Would you...would you pick up your socks?”
“Actually,” he said, “Mom’s always done that for me.”
Dang, that's harder than I thought. ]]>Last week
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1218423694.shtml
...The Night Writer2008-08-12T03:08+00:00
Last week a friend of mine died of cancer, the second friend I've lost this summer and both too young.
Last week was also my great aunt Essie's funeral. She was the last of my grandfather's siblings and our last living connection to the early years of the last century. Alva, Elza, Bransford, Mamie, John and Essie, the beloved children of William and Fannie.
Last week I also weeded the garden and felt the puffy, aching arthritic pain in my left middle finger, which reminded me of my father and his twisted knuckles. His stone has now been set and I'll be able to see it next month when I go down there. He's in the row at Oak Hill in front of Essie and her husband, Raymond.
Last week I also went to lunch with the Reverend Mother, the Mall Diva, my young cousin DeShae, and Miss B., the young woman who works for me. The young ladies are all in their early to mid-20s and Miss B. and the Diva are both recently engaged. You can probably guess what the women were all talking about at lunch. In fact, I nearly had to guess because I could barely make it out in all the background clatter and noise of the busy restaurant. I followed along by watching the light and animation in all of their beautiful faces.
Last week I had the chance to feel old, and grouchy, and tired of the random inevitability of life, yet in the gleaming of an eye, the softness of a cheek, the lightness of laughter and the tossing of hair I found the renewing power of hope and dreams and even second-hand it will last me this week, and maybe longer.
It's a wonderful world.
]]>Like a lover's voice fires the mountainside
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1217616213.shtml
...The Night Writer2008-08-01T18:08+00:00Mitch notes that it was 25 years ago today when Big Country's album "The Crossing" was released in the States. The big Top 40 hit from that album was the song "In a Big Country" ...
In a big country, dreams stay with you,
Like a lover's voice, fires the mountainside...
Stay alive..
Four years prior to that album coming out I had spent a semester in England, taking some classes and traveling the country as much as I could. The first time I heard "In a Big Country" (and every time since then) I thought of a conversation I had with a fellow American student after we'd been there for a couple of months. We both realized that one of the biggest things we missed was "the horizon" and the sense of how much land was beyond it. Even in the English country-side the horizon always seemed too close and you couldn't quite shake the feeling of being squeezed. As much as we missed good hamburgers and American sports, we found ourselves having longing thoughts of the Kansas interstate.
I don't think much about Kansas anymore, but the lines of the song have always stuck with me.
So take that look out of here it doesn't fit you
Because it's happened doesn't mean you've been discarded
Pull up your head off the floor -- come up screaming
Cry out for everything you ever might have wanted
As dark and obscure as they are, there's a certain "suck it up, wait it out" optimism underlying them. I've lived long enough now to have experienced several economic and political cycles, as well as times of feeling isolated and other times overwhelmed, and I think I've learned to hold onto the constants -- faith, the relationships you can count on, and the promise of another horizon and what may lay beyond.
I'm not expecting to grow flowers in a desert
But I can live and breathe
And see the sun in wintertime
