I want to write something meaningful.  I want to write something worth reading.

 

I want to write something real.  I want to share what I’m learning, only what am I learning?

 

 

 

And so I type something – and before I get to far I begin to see what I really want is you to think well of me, I want to sound deep, and well read. But without sounding like I’m trying to impress. 

Like a journal you leave about - hoping that someone will read it.

 

At times I am the man who reads a just so he can book so he can quote it later, vs the man who reads a book and is moved by the content therein.

A sentence, a phrase moves him.  He reads, and rereads.  He thinks.  He examines his life and his choices.

 

 

I remember being that man.  The man who read and was moved. 

 

 

That man is so busy.

 

 

 

 

 

And that saddens him.  Beauty not observed is beauty unknown. 

 

To see a sunrise, eat a breakfast, listen to a song, do my chores, to smell the hay – and to miss the beauty in them. 

 

But then I come home – I come home and kick my sodden shoes into a corner.  I pour a bowl of corn chex and and listen.

 

I listen to Jaymay, Palomar, Wayne Grudem, Sea Wolf, Working Poor, and Kris Gruen. 

 

And I fold my laundry, and I write – and I erase, and I think.  And I hear that music – not the music that is playing, but the echoes of a greater and grander song, the echoes mixing with a growing, groaning chorus. 

 

And all is good.  All is hard.  All is grace.

Darn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

u u u u u

Spent my evening trying to process enough of life to post a meaningful blog.  Only to be interrupted by Sadie.

Sadie getting out.

Sadie finding a skunk.

Neil moving doghouse.

Sadie getting out.

Sadie making lots of noise.

Neil turning up his music, trying not to breath deeply, while cursing the idiocy of the lower orders.

Sadie cornering a porcupine.

Neil being very temped to let Sadie learn her lesson.

 

VERY TEMPTED.

 

Neil imagining the quite evenings, and peaceful mornings he could enjoy without this menace.

Neil realizing that an encounter with porcupine would most likely not prove fatal.

Darn.

 

 

So rather than listen to a dog whimper all night, Neil with the aid of a long pole dispatched the porcupine. Found the hole in the fence.  Sewed it shut with baling wire.

 

Glared at Sadie.

 

 

 

and another evening gone . . . . sigh

Car camping

 

 

a

 

 

 

 

 

I saw him looking down last Sunday – and I could tell things were not right.  Sitting in the back row.  Quiet. 

 

We chatted and . . . . .

 

 

. . . . . .  and I could hear it.   I could see it.  That quiet, small pain – the pain that says “sit with me” it asks no more.  It does not want words, it does not want sympathy – it just wants presence.

 

Just shared quiet, just a someone there.

 

 

 

Not a time for words.

 

So I smiled, and pretended not to see the small flicker – I made small talk and went my way.

Asking is . . . . so messy, loving is . . . . inconvenient at times.

 

 

And it tugged at my heart.

 

and I ignored it.

 

 

 

 

 

It wanted to keep me up, but I slept – better than I care to admit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But in the morning the thought presented itself again.

 

 

And I promptly quelled it.

 

 

 

 

Till this morning.

When I saw him again, and I knew – I could no longer pretend I did not see what I had wanted to hope I saw.  The clues were there. 

 

 

And this time we talked, we shared some silence, he talked and I listened. 

 

 

We cried together. 

We prayed together. 

 

 

 

 

We sat on the old pew in my kitchen the kitten played with our shoestrings.

 

And I want to tell you this.

 

Dare to ask, to listen, and to love.

 

 

 

 

Dare to care, to care about the people God places near you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To listen and to exhort. 

 

To stay up late and do life.

 

 

What a good hard thing it is to be broken.

What a good hard thing it is to see a brother broken.

What a better thing it is to see a brother seeking out the only one who can help him.

 

 

Read Duetromeny 8, and understand why God take those He loves to the desert.

Read Psalm 13 and understand that God is good, even in this – whatever your this maybe.

 

Do not let your pain and brokenness be wasted.

 

Read Psalm 51.

 

 

 

And lean into the only One who can help.

Epilogue

*Written June 5th, posted today

 

I stumbled across a video on Facebook today, on a wall I have not visited in well over a year. 

 

So much water has flowed under the bridge.

Journals have been filled, filed, and finally burned.

 

I’ve felt myself board up windows – and close off whole wings.

 

 

Not to preserve what was, or to forget what might have been – but to leave so that I may someday joyfully cross the threshold anew.

 

 

And so with distance and time the shore you sailed away from blurs, and the parts of yourself that you left behind there have faded.

 

 

Have you ever lay in a warm bed and dreaded touching a cold floor – only to have the floor not be as cold as you thought?

Did you even consider touching an electric fence – and felt the anticipation of the shock you would receive grow within you – and in finally touching it, find that you had anticipated a much larger jolt.

Or eaten something that looked horrible and turned out to taste wonderful?

 

 

 

 

 

That moment when you were expecting one thing and found another.

 

It takes your breath – and unexpected joy – a joy you thought aborted, and buried, can sometimes burst and flow freely.

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t know what to call it – it differs from closer, it’s more.

 

Maybe it’s healing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe it’s grace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Did you ever come to the end of a story and find that the author has left you holding a few loose threads?

 

Only to turn the page and find an epilogue?