Inspiration – “The Breath of God”
a :  a divine influence or action on a person believed to qualify him or her to receive and communicate sacred revelation
b :  the action or power of moving the intellect or emotions
c :  the act of influencing or suggesting opinions
2:  the act of drawing in; specifically :  the drawing of air into the lungs

11009935_10155533330895525_7008491709886706110_oDo you like balloon animals? Or not just animals, balloons in themselves?? You know, I can’t resist them. I also find that every kid and adult wants to play with them. We can be amazed how artist shape and create with them. We can be held captive that they can be made into animals, shapes, objects, and some balloons can be made to carry people.

    You have various types of balloons. Round ones, big ones, small ones, long ones. There are water-balloons, party balloons… There are Hot Air-balloons and helium balloons which can be made to carry objects and or people.
    The thing about balloons is they have no control of themselves, but drift with the wind and current. 18893248_10212663855048689_5145219435610478307_nThey rise and fall with the temperature and with the drafts, or the forces that influence their direction.
    The balloons themselves cannot take credit for what they are, or what they do. They can only be blown up, twisted and tied by the one who is in control and used for it’s intended purpose.
    I am not in-control. I am not too sure that I am one of theses balloons. Sometimes, I feel I am being twisted and distorted into some shape. I can feel the twists and bending of the Master’s hands, but can’t tell what form I am taking. I have seen some balloons pop while being twisted to much, or having to much air, and I can’t help but to wonder if I am at this point.
    I can feel the pressure, the stretching.. One more twist and it’s over. But He isn’t done. No, I think I am more than just this one balloon. I am being fashioned with many.. Each part of me is a separate color and shape. He is bending every part of me. He is twisting and tying every part into a sequence. And there are areas that He has blown up and twisted that could not handle the pressure. Areas where the pressure was greater than the fabric of my being, and those areas have given way. They have burst under the hand of the Master.
    I ask for peace and rest, and His hands give form by bending my will. I ask for comfort from the areas that have popped, and what happens is be ties on another.. Reshaping. Reconstructing.. As one poet put it, being compared to a living sacrifice, “I crawl off the offer and with my smoke-filled lungs I cry for freedom.”
29965_1440302815978_1138054_n    Why can’t I be filled with helium. People love helium balloons. They are used for parties, and decorations. Kids and adults will suck in the helium out of them to make their voices change. If I was one people could breathe me in and laugh. Or like a science experiment they could let me go and I could float away out of sight.. If out of sight, out of mind. Maybe there I could find peace. But again, reminded by the Great Psalmist, Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in hell, you are there!
    Or why not make me a hot air-balloon so that I can be big and beautiful..? Used to take people higher and make them feel smaller in the vastness of the sky looking down on earth. Oh that I might be used over and over, filling people with awe and wonder at your creation seen from above. Maybe I can’t hold all the hot air. Maybe I can’t be filled with such views of grandeur or be tempted with such splendor..
    One thing, if not two, is for sure. He who creates wills and shapes as He chose. And at last, ever 13346673_1745119455768051_4872466405851222693_nballoon will pop.. All the air will leave the balloon. It is not made to last but for a moment. For “All flesh is like grass and all its glory like the flower of grass. The grass withers, and the flower falls, but the word of the Lord remains forever.”
    It’s not the shape that remains. It’s not the beauty that is created. It is not about the materials it is made out of. It is about the One who wills.. Who gives and takes away. It is His breath that will remain forever. The vessels come and go. The carriers of the breath are just that. Carriers! Taking His form. Taking His shape, to give meaning and bring purpose to those around us. We are just the carriers of that Breath.. The Inspiration! “And He (God) breathed into man the breath of life.” So, may I breath in deeply. May I stretch to hold more and bend to give resemblance to that which reflects the Creator.


Fishing for Words

I love fishing. Well, I use to love fishing. I loved watching fishing shows, competitions, whatever I could. I 208625_1006683625554_2761212_n[1]use to love being on the water, early in the morning, sun just coming up over the crest of the earth bringing to live all the rays touch. The gentle lap of the water against the hull of the boat. Positioning everything for that first cast..

A Great movie all should see, A River Runs Through It. In it Norman McLean says, “in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise”.

Sometimes writing is like fishing, you have to leave your line in the water long enough to catch something. Also, the more you do it, the better you get. For me, I have not had my line in the water in a long time. I have forgotten how to cast upon the water. I have lost my positioning. The rhythm is off,  and my technique  rusty at best. So, this is me rising early once again, feeling the morning gradually awaking from the night. My boat is now my chair, my pole is the computer that sits in my lap, I will now attempt once again to catch my passion for words. Not just any words, but words so strung together that thought and poetry give way to meaning and cohesiveness. May my words form character and body, constructing the emotion and feelings of  this moment in time.
197449_1006683665555_4733849_n[2]The water is calm this morning; the wind is yet somewhat turbulent. The clouds loom, not allowing the morning rays to cast it’s light. Yet, the fish, words, are stirring. Maybe something will bite.

I don’t fish, write, for a living. (A dream it would be for sure.) I do it because it makes me feel alive. I do it for the peace it gives. The click of the keys, the flow of the words like the current of the lake, each click lapping the hull of the boat. A rhythm sets in. A pattern.. I’m not looking to catch a lot, just one good one. One story. One thought
Many casts with many stokes of the keys, getting fewer and fewer nibbles. All it takes is that one. It’s not like I am going to keep it. I will just let it go. But in catching that thought, bringing it in, and releasing it, I feel a sense of accomplishment. Conquering? Maybe.. Understanding? More likely. Of myself.. and hopefully to those around me. I write because I feel the words. I cast my words out and draw them back in a rhythmic pattern, slowly at times and then fast at others.. At times I just let them free fall, “in hope that a fish will rise,” a thought will be captured, a truth be told, and understanding gained.

The Scriptures tell us to “Cast your bread upon the water, and it will return upon every wave.” So this is 200053_1006683705556_7455236_n[1]me.. I am pulling away from the shore once more. I am going to my favorite spot. I am grabbing the best, or what I deem appropriate for the moment.

It has been a long time since I have fished. It has been a while since I have had to position myself.  I will find the rhythm again… The thoughts are there, pooled under the cliff. I lift my rod and I cast..
I write..

This Ole House

This Ole House

The day started 11850735_10201027848016578_5312701627341326930_ooff weird.. But this has been a weird week. Our sons are going off to college. Our oldest moved out back in June leaving us alone with just Josh, our youngest.. We have had so many people living with us at one time. 4 to 5 extra at a time. Now, it’s just my wife and I with our youngest.. My wife is attached to our youngest, not for any special reason but that he is the last. This is a mother’s dilemma…(as well as a father’s.) She is created for nurturing. Loving. Holding.. Caring for and raising, and the last child, well… That is the end of a season. A Season of 18-20 years.. A Season your whole life has been involved in. Everything that has made life what it is.. And when purpose and being is gone, a low dark cloud comes over a soul. A loneliness. A hurt.. An emptiness that nothing else really fills.

We loaded the car and took our youngest to college.. Now, back home 10342474_4261534114782_6637889052803427413_nwe experience only something we have had only once in the last 20 years.  Silence.. Nobody in the house. No one is living with us. No one is darkening our halls, running around.. Using our stuff.. We are alone. The cloud lingering overhead. Silence is screaming and is deafening.  What is it saying? What is it telling us? This house has known people.. Lots of People.. Crowds.. What once was a beehive of activity now serves as a shell, a cocoon for us who remain. What will come out of this? What will be birthed?
10426231_4766301973663_5690526606201447650_n  This ole house has been through a lot, and so have we.. We are repairing walls, ceilings, bathrooms… Worn for the years, but loved. Used, but not used. The house is just showing signs of age and the effects of loving people; the giving of oneself for the need of community. It creaks a little, but not more than it should. It needs some Tender Loving Care.  Healing from the wounds it has endured for the love it gave. And so it is with us.
Sitting inside, waiting.  Yet working.. Rebuilding and repairing. Shaping.. Transforming. The house is going to ok.10494528_4526679423249_5773793665840388697_n It has endured much and with the right kind of attention and care it will be better than new, but right now things are disorganized. Nothing is where is should be. No area is inviting.  We live among the clutter.  This ole house is in need, and need requires time.. And so do we… Our souls, my soul, is tired.. My spirit fights for breath. The youthful energy is gone. Times of transformation, metamorphosis, require a lot of energy. This ole house has gotten older. The walls of my heart are brittle and cracked. The attic of my mind is clouded with the unsettled dust of the repairs, while needing repaired itself.  Though room to store new stuff is there, the clutter from the old is scattered making it hard to move. 20002_10200896341729003_402320509152912501_nRooms inside of me that housed certain people, things, now are shadows of things that once were. The rooms need repairing. Textured.. Sanding.  Painting… Memories linger as the chips in the paint. But it’s hard going into these rooms. These things take time. Metamorphoses usually do.
To work on this house you cannot start on the whole, but only focus on an area. The whole is overwhelming. We need vision to see past the clutter, the faults, and problems to see the possibilities of what can be again. But this too is change.. And Change takes Time.. We cannot rush it..
This ole house has its problems. We all do.. But life is filled with 1528666_3824415387087_1324871461_ngoodbyes.
“It’s all right, children. Life is made up of meetings and partings. That is the way of it. I am sure that we shall never forget… this first parting that there was among us.” A Muppet Christmas Carol.

Back in the States, Back Home

We are back from ou1525706_620665411392561_6960443412202265789_nr 7 month Mission Trip. We left pretty much everything to go seek God in a different context, in a different culture, to find more of His heart. Being back people have asked, “How was it? Good?” or they would make a comment, “Glad your back.”  Some have asked, “What is it like being back?”

These are meaningful questions, made in somewhat sincerity, but things are not that simple as to respond with one or two words. There is not a simple answer nor response for even the comment, “Glad you’re back.”  Our hearts swell with experiences, and thoughts that swim inside us. How can we let them out? Share them? Who really wants to listen and not to be just polite?

What was it like for Jesus to go back home? Ever thought about it? He was constantly traveling around the country10991152_829572157115485_3403580132156737247_n speaking, teaching, healing, and on occasion would come to his home town.. Was He excited to see those He knew and grew up with? Did He have friends He would see? School Buddies? What about His own family..? Here is what we ready about His own family.

When His family heard this, they set out to restrain Him, because they said, “He’s out of His mind.” Mark 3:2

Then Jesus told them, “A prophet is honored everywhere except in his own hometown and among his relatives and his own family.” Mark 6:4

10428493_357767687742531_2838769125749831671_nNot the welcome you would expect.. Not the welcome we would expect from those closest.  Isn’t it so true though?? Those closest to us are often the ones that misunderstand us the most.. Those who should hold our hearts the softest, feeding our spirits the most, providing that place of safety are often the ones to be the quickest to judge, condemn, cast the first stone, and be the most critical.

 “He went away from there and came to his hometown, and his disciples followed him. 2 And on the Sabbath he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were astonished, saying, “Where did this man get these things? What is the wisdom given to him? How are such mighty works done by his hands? 3 Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon? And are not his sisters here with us?” And they took offense at him. “

Jesus knew this.. He understood it. But I am sure the pain is still there. For He was “Tempted in all parts as we.” Clothing himself in humanity he felt the pangs of betrayal, forsakenness, and loneliness.. And maybe, just maybe he walked these road willingly knowing that our hearts are fickle. Our passions are fleeting..

My heart is fickle.. My passion is fleeting.. I keep hearing this song, “If I give it all to You will You make it all New? 11030721_359721387547161_1543518241562160715_nAnd If I open up my hands will You fill them again??”  I am asking. Wondering, Searching.. I am holding out my empty hands, hoping they will be filled again.  I am giving my heart away, hoping it will be made new.  My passion is fleeting, and I look once again to the scriptures to make sense of my life, seeing that even now, I am understood.  I have one who was tempted in every way.

I will rest.. Not in the comfort of others, for they like me, are fleeting. Not in the joy of sharing my heart, for few who want to hear it..  But I will rest that somehow this will all make sense and the Author has not finished writing out my story/

The Fallen Snow

1546410_10200348226066454_1284151237000623063_nThe things of Heaven, falling effortlessly to mingle with the stuff of Earth.. The pure white flakes falling so freely, with no pattern or rhythm, but yet poetic in beauty. Some linger in the air longer, while others rush to cling to what is nearest, and the rest falling to the earth covering it like a blanket of white cotton.
For a moment the earth is bathed in beauty. For a fraction of time what was drab and unbecoming has a magical charm. The scars, the well worn paths, the blemishes are covered up.
Light reflects off each crystal. Making everything brighter, clearer… In the1463061_10200348226986477_9020332311870182659_n night, the street lamps shimmer off the snow illuminating all that once was just shadows.. The world, for a moment, seems soft.. Welcoming.. In gazing at it, Peace covers the mind like the snow on the trees. Yet, after time, the things of heaven, that which was pure and untouched, mingles with the stuff of earth and becomes dirty, at best.. And worst in the well worn areas..
The white has turned to a gray hew. A blackish powder covers the once white crystals. The beauty is darkened and discolored. What was once magical, transforming, has become darkened and depressing. The ground is no longer soft and welcoming, but soiled and depressing… I wonder if the later is not worst off than that which was in the former, before the fall…?
10897857_10204649968426775_7695144801637191466_n   This is not magical. This is not beauty. Does beauty fade so quickly? Does it leave faster than it comes?? Do the things of Heaving mingle so awfully with the stuff of earth?? Can the two co-exist?  Or is the world so harsh and conditions so bad that beauty can not keep its form?
I am not beautiful. I have fallen to earth, rushing to find the ground, other times clinging to what is nearest to me. People see me white, sparkly even, but I am neither. The stuff of earth has me in its grips. The scars of the well worn paths are showing their marks. That which should be reflective is now tarnished. Have I become gross and unwelcoming? Has the beauty faded so fast? I long for the things of Heaven to mingle with the stuff of earth, for beauty to stay, and not fade.. And for the light to keep reflecting, pushing the shadows away

Dear Sister Moon, I see you

1505476_10200111568790170_640475446106643753_nI am in Romania.. Specifically I am in Targu Mures. I find myself under the glow of a moon as it casts its light through the looming clouds which hover overhead.  I am in the Center. The Center of town, and so is 10,000 other people. We have gather to watch the lighting of the Christmas Tree.  The electricity in the air is as sharp and tangible as that which will be running thru every branch on this 100 foot tree.

I am captivated by something else. My gaze is not yet fixed on the tree, but that which is above it. Something above the buildings, above the clouds. It’s glowing essence is mysterious. The moon seems to be hiding in the shadows, piercing thru from time to time, as to watch from  above that which is about to take place.

I don’t know if it’s trying to hide from the people, or if the clouds are that selfish as to block it’s view, but Sister Moon is 10410417_10200111560069952_4065132519833764690_nthere.  From a distant spot, watching with the glow of the radiant sun that which is about to take place.

Clouds pass by, some lingering longer than others.. The moon peeking around to keep an ever watchful eye on what’s below. I should be looking at the tree. The 1000’s of hours that went to making this spectacular moment is about to be reviled.. But I keep watching as the moon seems to be kept from view.

10702198_10200111555509838_686218470937247115_n  In a choreography of color, at once the blacked 100 foot object comes to life. Flashes of light, the blues, reds, and whites flash.. The tree has become the center of the attention. How could it not? Who could take their eye off the symphony of lights moving with the rhythm of music playing across the Center??

As the newness wears off, and people start heading in different directions, I had to look. Was she there? Did she see it? Did she notice? Or were there clouds blocking out the scene below?

Yes, she was still watching. Not being the center of attention, no one focused on the Beauty that was hovering over their heads, yet she was shining as bright as the lights that decorate the city around me..

The moon, hanging back, tucked away by the clouds, not being the center of attention, yet a part of the night. She is there,10418222_10200111544829571_2323664707732184769_n  playing her part. Why don’t  we see her? Why don’t we notice her? Is it because we are more about the here and now? Are we concerned with that which is flashy and new that we can’t notice natural beauty? Her soul matters.  She has been bypassed by so many. No one notices her significance. There is nothing flashy about her. She is plain, and only at times does she appear to be bright. Most of the time we only see a part of her. Maybe we aren’t listening. What is she saying? Why are our hearts hardened to her ever changing form?

I am no longer concerned about the moon, nor the tree.. Another, who reflects this moon I have been watching.  Her soul is precious.  Her spirit is brave.. She shines in the darkness, but never drawing attention to her beauty..She is Mysterious.

10419602_10203349260315570_2956521066530176410_n  There are many like her..  Those who are pushed to the back, afraid of coming forward. They sit back, at times darkened by the clouds that block out the sun in their life. They have a beauty about them.  There is something captivating with each soul.. Each Spirit.. They come in different forms and different shades, but their beauty is theirs.  They illuminate, not themselves but those around them.  They watch from 10806442_10200111542829521_832006939117831907_nafar.  They long to be apart of something… But what??

Music is playing.. Kids are dancing. The Moon seems to be watching it all.. And the one who is in back  seems to be illuminating a little more brightly. There is an awkward and uneasiness about her around others.. Yet, graceful and full of love, her compassion pushes thru the cold night air. Yes, even from a distance, her presence is known..

The moon is beautiful tonight…

Seasons.. A View from the Fall

10624703_10204225670899602_5711718014841679115_n“He Changes times and Seasons..” Daniel 2:21

Dear Dairy,
Seasons change..  The winter blows in from the north, the sky turns from a bright warm yellow to a gray haze. The clouds are not so far away, and they linger a little longer hovering over head, casting a shade over creation, giving it a foreshadowing of things to come, they are proclaiming a time of change has come..
There is a chill in the air. Our breath is now seen as it comes forth in a cloud into the crisp air. There is a warmth from within that the cold tries to steal. The fight is seen with each breath and word spoken. We want to hold on to the warmth so we add more layers. We are wearing thicker clothes, noticing more sweaters as I look around. Scarves now are not just for embellishment or color, but for the insulation of what is inside. What is in the inside? What is it10388074_10204225670499592_1977523856913774952_n we are protecting?  Concealing?

The color around me is changing. The green leaves turn to a yellow golden flake against the hues of blue in the sky. Red is added by the Creator to give the picture that something poetic is happening, and it color is a new verse in the poem.  The poem reaches the climax as each of the verses fall to earth, floating through the night air.  As the Creator breathed the next breath on them giving the earth, the ground, a new covering, a thicker garment.. The leaves wrap around the trunk of the trees like s scarf.  They cover the ground like a warm winter blanket to shield from the new crisp air.

10401460_10204225672499642_5652892439681493437_n  I put on my orange coat.. It’s big, fluffy, and warm. I feel like The Great Pumpkin walking down the leaf covered sidewalks. My scarf is wrapped around my neck.. I look up… The sky is changing. Clouds are moving in. I can tell change is inevitable. I can feel the grip of fall losing its hold just as did summer did.. It fights to hold on..
Few leaves remain on the trees. The color has diminished and the gloom of winter is showing on each branch as it lays bare, showing that it cannot hold on to what was. (Nor can I..) There are a few leaves dangling as if they are holding on by a thread of hope, but soon they too will flutter to the ground and the echo of their fall will10378151_10204225672059631_6426576244259152229_nnot be heard by all. The weight they bare is not felt. The hope they carry is not cherished, they will soon be crumbled under foot by each person treading by.

I will watch where I step.. I will look up to see those who are still hanging on. I will wrap up in layers to protect the warmth that is inside of me. I will conceal the harshness of the effects that the change of seasons have on me.  The wind blows cold across  the leaves of my memories, and each memory, each leaf, is another burning bush that is 13992_4981858962453_848686828845387122_nextinguished.  Each leaf, trying to hold on to the tree of what was.. Each memory trying to be preserved for the future, but fall has come. The memories are falling off the tree. The connections of the past are being broken. The Creator is breathing His breath in a New Poem of my life and my leaves are showing the marks of a winter that is coming… And is now here..
As each connection is lost. Each leaf that falls.. Another person.. Another memory ..fades off the tree. Those I try to hold on to cannot withstand the next verse that is being spoken by the great Poet. The tree stands bare. Those that see it forget what it looked like when it was in full bloom, radiant with life and color.  Pedestrians walking across the fallen memories crushing what was once vibrant and beautiful. They are not fully understanding the change, but seeing it as a bother, or an eye soar that needs to be cleaned up. Fall is Messy.. .Winter is1503356_4981859162458_2348996563738046083_n cold, and sometimes harsh..
Seasons have a purpose. Things that were once alive, either wither and die, or hibernate.. To give way to what will come in the spring. Out of the dead of winter comes life, in its time. A New Life.. New Growth..
Dear Diary, Winter is here..  I am covering up what is warm inside me.  I will walk past the once beautiful trees that now look lifeless, and I will reflect on the change of seasons the Creator brings.  I will try not to take the fallen leaves for granted, nor crush them uncaringly under my weight. I know they have purpose. I know they served the tree well.. There is life still inside this trunk of mine, and life still flows thru the branches, but even as I stand naked and barren, and somewhat ashamed, I know this lifeless looking tree will bloom again. I know this season is just what it is, A Season..