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Moments

The Dogwoods are in bloom. And again, I have missed it. The birds haven't, it is their wonderful drama of flight and chorus that has drawn my eyes to the dogwood. I am left flustered and wondering. Their must be a moment, an instantaneous second of movement from expectancy to birth, one moment where life burst from the bloom, and the glory is revealed. Still another year has passed and everyone was seated at the table save one.

I wonder why I miss so many of these moments. I suppose it could be my life, too busy, too bored, too blessed. Or I supposed it could be that I am just not conscious of the moment at hand, I'm elsewhere in the future or past, across town or the next room.

The simplest truth is, I miss so many of these moments waiting for them, never satisfied, always seeking, ever expecting. Anni Dillard said it best “Because how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.”

My prayer is this. "Father that I would live each moment, with the same expectations and energy I have assigned for a lifetime. and that you would bless me with many. Amen"

Another drive...another movement

Driving home from Newport with my best friend Callie after just spending one of the best weekends of my life with the cutest baby in the entire world and the cutest puppy in the entire world, the stage was set for an eruption of my heart all over the canvas of my ideas. The sun was just setting and the blues and oranges of the western sky were becoming more beautiful with each mile. A simple glance to the left and there it was, a single stream of water pouring out of the side of a mountain that had just been cut into for an extension of the interstate lanes. Another glance and I saw smoke rising from the ashes of what appeared be be a small brush pile at the foot of the mountain below. The smoke swirled up and leaned into the rugged mountain, like an old man laboring to his feet, after a long spell of sitting on his rocker. As it ascended the smoke met the horizon in unison with the evening clouds rolling in over the ridge, and I was moved. It was in that moment that I realized that the God we serve is persistent, and patient. He will sit atop the mountain and say, "you can carve roads through my mountains, and I will make waterfalls spring out of them, and you can burn my leaves, and i will use their smoke to draw attention to the clouds. It makes me wonder just how beautifully God will use the burned, carved up, wretched humanity we have all so willingly accepted, and turn it into His bride.

When will I stop worrying so much about who I am influencing and start worrying about who I'm effecting?

Lessons from Trains...

I hate making up my bed. I think it is the most pointless act known to mankind. I used to say, "I will do all of the other house work in my home if my wife will just not have me make up the bed!" Lately I've been having company over more often in my apartment so the making of my bed has happened much more frequently. As I made the bed this morning it hit me that, I only have to make up one side of my bed each morning on account that I am a relatively light sleeper so I don't squirm much, which leaves one side of my bed relatively untouched.
I think I would like very much to make up my bed each morning, if only i was making up both sides. I know this has nothing to do with trains, but this is just one of the lessons I'm learning in a relationship in which late nights with trains passing by are surpassingly important. =)

The most important thing anyone ever said to me was, "I love you," The second was "No."

We will spend the majority of our lives trying to convince each other that our life is something special; and when we die those closest to us will faintly recognize the extraordinary process it was. I can imagine God, lounging in an old dark leather chair, atop a studio apartment in the old part of some English town in the late 1800's, sipping from His favorite coffee mug, stirring into the wee hours of the night, pen in hand, weaving a story together piece by piece, feeling every twist and turn as if they reached out and grabbed Him, carefully placing each character and event in their perfect pose, and as the pages fill slowly before His raised eyebrow and slight smirk an epic flows out of his fingertips and into his feather and slowly seeps dark into pages. I can imagine as He pens the final words that tears would probably well up in His eyes and fall from His cheek and upon the words sprawled out in front of Him. Then, slowly he would gather his work and sit in front of it reluctantly for a moment, and then from somewhere deep inside joy would spread across his face as He lunged forward with outstretched arms, grasped His work and embraced it as closely as He could.
It will be much easier in the funeral home to cope with death if we ignore the supernatural story life really was, and how death was its tragic end, and wonderful catalyst.