A poet is found in the end

Today as I slowed to a halt at an intersection, a dream drove across in front of me. It was a sky blue, restored convertible car from the fifties. I apologize that my lack of car knowledge inhibits the vision, but imagine a long, smooth hood that rounds down to white rubber wheels and classic, shined hubcaps. The windshield wraps the front of the car, and protected the precious cargo from losing their assorted hats and scarfs. Seated in the front were two old men who seemed finely aged into their seventies. Seated behind them were two matching women, all dressed in clothes that you only buy when you retire.

I dreamed a dream of reunion. I dreamed these two old men having been best friends since five, and maybe after some distance through college at separate schools, were reunited. Soon after they were best men in each others weddings. Of course, the bride in each case was a women they had counseled each other about through many midnights during the long months of courting and engagement. Their wives naturally hit it off, and soon started planning double dates, in which there were never objections from the men, except the request to go to the batting cages instead of the flower garden. During their younger days the women, soft and beautiful, would chatter away in the back seat with matching smiles. The sun was their friend and was glad to soak into their skin, allowing their bodies to turn a radiant gold, the only color that replicated their love for the man seated forefront. As the world smiled at its sky colored ant rolling through dirt roads and hillside, eternal moments of bliss were made.
Over the years children came out crying, and soon it was a month before the couples had seen each other. A month turned into a year, a year turned into a decade, and it became nearly impossible to travel a family of five. Time slowly did its part on the heart, but never on the memory. As grandchildren came the chapters of written careers begin to end, and a conclusions to their life's book began to draw near. The vision of their kin's kin, inspired reminiscence, and a longing grew bubbles large enough to touch across the mileage that separated them. So they met in Montecito, and the old convertible, looking warm as ever, was filled with familiar laughs and love.
I was blessed enough to survey the latter part, and create the former.

However, what if this dream had no resemblance to reality. Sure there is pain and hurt after living seventy years, but doesn't the charity of a poetic dream like that outweigh the gross, reality of life? Maybe this is where my poetic skew that loves happy endings and full circles ends.
I fell into a possible contradiction. The contradiction that keeps me from flying into optimism. Maybe these two couples have absolutely nothing in common, and all four have Alzheimer's, just happen to be at the same retirement community, and felt like a ride. What if the back ladies sit in awkward silence, while the men talk about all the women they got to "know" in the past fifty years. How the drivers feels lucky for not going through the three divorces his companion had, but knows he wished he would have abandoned his wife half way through the marriage to travel the globe with his secret love. What if the women are upset for the convertible, because each are so paranoid about the sun's power over their skin cells.
Neither world is more probable than the other, which do I live in? I am dual minded in nearly everything. I end to be the true poet stuck somewhere in the middle, and praying for the former. Praying for a day when it is all in the former.
I still believe, Maranatha!

metaphor(shore) break

Today feels like the end of an era. I will forever remember this summer as a gift, as an answer to prayer. I received the blessing of a living space filled with five young men. Evan Engle, Drew Tillman, Ryan Reiner, Craig Sewall, and John Carsenson. This is not a shout out, this is a memo to the world. World, if you ever get to meet these five men, give them a hug for me, look into their eyes and know there is depth behind the shades. There is faith, there is sensitivity, there is care, there is confidence, there is a Lordship alongside them.
I missed our fellow traveler, and when he left, the summer's current and relational chemistry that i began to know as home was washed away. But the surf of the five of us remained. As another departs tomorrow, I feel the surf slowly being swallowed by the sand. Each wave is made up of individuals, and I am grateful and touched to be mixed and welcomed into each wave. I am thankful for each particle of person, especially those five.
On Friday I move out, and on that day it will dry completely. The dryness is near. It does not frighten me, but the heat will come, and it will remind me that I won't last long without another wash of homeliness.
After I dry in the sand, after a time couch surfing and itineration through out California, I will throw myself to the sea. Wherein I will toss and toil, travel, rise in swell, and crash on a new continent. There I will mix with a brand new water, and be apart of a new wave.
This is community.

Clouded Chests

Almost every other day this summer, 11am has meant, "almost lunch time." This morning it means, "post-breakfast-cereal-blog time." This past weekend I house sat at Dr. Tremper Longman's again. I paralleled it to my last visitation, what a difference eh? Last time i was praying about how Africa plans would pan out, and the rest of the summer, and was soaking up the solitude with joy. This time i was making phone calls about fund raising, ending my summer job, and wondering why despair had decided to join my shirt as its hanging from my neck. That's what kind of a weekend it was, and i have utterly no explanation for it. All i know is that I tried to remedy it, i went through a check list of possible solutions that often bend my physical, mental and spiritual equilibrium. I was eating fine (mostly), exercising, praying, and sleeping fine. There were a few other theories, some of which still remain in deliberation with the jury, but i know the basics were stable. However, for some reason this monkey clung to my back and began picking my nose and trying to make its way through my ears, clogging them, and the world felt deaf to me.
This feeling swelled, until I came back to my apartment. In the initial hours of my homecoming i thought this spell was over. Nope, it came back as soon as i realized it might be over. It swelled, until it crashed on the shores of my pride. I knew i needed to ask someone to pray with me, not just for me, but with me.
I then realized i was staging an inner battle. As if behind your rib cage there are two clouds colliding, a stormy one that wishes to weigh you down with its soaking drops, and a bright, pure, and white cloud that wishes to brighten the day from the inside. But the trick is all along, the rain cloud only has so much water before it dissipates, and the white cloud of righteousness is fueled and ignited by the warmth of the sun. I have not a strong idea of what the sun is, whether it is my own ability to keep searching, or the Holy Spirit, or Christ "in me," but i do know that whatever it was, it blazed in a time of prayer, and burned away the gray. I went to Ryan and Craig, and asked them to pray for me, and failed to express my feelings (big surprise there right... well maybe sometimes i guess). As they both prayed for me, somewhere amongst there sentiments and pleads to our Lord, i felt something swell against the wave of despair, and "it" was over.
Thank you Ryan, thank you Craig, thank you God.

Two Face

I had promised myself to continue writing blogs. That seems to be the only prompting for this blog, a promise. I sit here, again, with no compelling thoughts that i must share before they split my thorax, screaming like the infamous little friend in the blockbuster hit, Alien (and Alien 2, and 3). We'll shouldn't promises be something worth writing about? Yes... the answer you were looking for is Yes.

I think promises are metaphors of faith. Sometimes being faithful is simply sticking to your commitments and promises. Even though they make no sense, even though there is no reason or inner compulsion, you should stick to your promises. Just like faith, faith is not faith if it is only convenient, and sensible. Both faith and promise require follow through no matter what, and for no reason. Half of life is presence, showing up, continuing in your commitments.

Now let me express to you my dualistic mind by turning the coin. If half of life is just showing up, and all you do is show up, you have only living half a life. The other half i think comes with expressing the seven virtues of presence. Recently i have been reading Foster and Beebe's book, "Longing For God," and it continues to blow my mind. I am constantly realizing that much of what i have thought, believed, experienced is congruent to those of the expressions of our Church Fathers. Thank you Evagrius of Ponticus for outlaying the Seven Virtues. I would also like to call them the Seven Practices of Presence. The other half of life comes when you are present and expressing temperance, justice, courage (fortitude), and prudence (wisdom), faith, hope, and love. A practical expression of these is possible in every single moment and every interaction of our day.

I'm not sure which is harder. What i do know, is that i am about to be late for a dinner with my beloved family if i don't stop this blog in five seconds so maybe right now promises are harder, but i doubt it because

Bold as Love

It has been over a month since my last blog. I don't know why, I've played all kinds of positions on the baseball diamond of life over the past month. Surely there has been some worth while thoughts worth recording, i don't know why they never got their blogging recognition. But i finally figured that i needed to get back into the habit, especially if i am planning to keep a steady, organized, and thorough blog while i am in Africa; i should get some practice now, at least habitually. So here goes the beginning of a habit (they say that psychologically it takes 30 days to create a habit... i always thought it was seven repetitions... oh well, either way, raise your glass with me as i begin and toast to habitual blogging!)

The last few days I have been pondering a question we must all ponder if we are to call ourselves Christians. Where is Jesus? How do I love Him now, today?
I walked along the beach yesterday pondering this question while waves crashed and proved a distraction for my senses, allowing my mind to run freely. "If only Jesus was still visible!" I said. If He had a physical body, if i could talk to him, if i could feed him, it would be so easy! I can serve my apartments by cleaning the house or kitchen, but i can't even do that for my King and Savior? Do we as a culture even know the fullness of Kingship if we live in a culture that is anti-serfdom. That's a tangent for another day, maybe tomorrow's blog? Anyway, why is it that i readily move grease from the stove-top to the paper towel, and then the trash out of love of cleanliness and my friends well-beings, but can't i can't figure out how to love Jesus?

Then, alike the arrival of golden toast, the epiphany flies and settles on the springs of my cortex. Didn't Jesus break the bread, and call it his body? Whoa... that takes toast to a whole new level... No stop it Thomas, get back on topic. Okay wait, His body is the Church right? Well shoot, what are his eyes? His eye's are all those who believe? But what about God sending rain on the righteous and unrighteous? Uh, is God's body everyone? Or the Church? The Church is his body, but God loves all, being apart of a body is a choice... maybe...

An angler throws his lure, preferably fly, into a pool of water. He places it in that spot because he can sense, or see the shadow of a fish just below the shimmering surface. He longs for the fish to follow curiosity and hook its snout, he longs to get a glimpse and experience the being he has sought and hunted with skill, he longs for his own curiosity to be satisfied. It is with that same longing that i have longed to see the eyes of Jesus. But i am beginning to believe that when i gaze into eyes of another person, i see the eyes of God, I see Jesus' eyes, the body of Christ. The metaphor is less metaphysical than i assumed. I hope to make this a reality.

When i was younger (ha) I believed a line to be true. To butcher it politely, it went something like this, "The confident, the strong look people in the eyes when you talk to them. It shows respect." Somehow over the years i lost the ability to hold a gaze. When I look someone straight in the eyes i feel something, I'm almost scared. It's almost sacred. I can't explain it. But I think it shows love. Its hard for me to look someone in the eyes continuously, while simultaneously speaking. But i will try. Pecos does this well, he always has, and when he does not, i know there is something wrong. To me, love is bold, Jesus is bold. To look someone in the eyes and understand that those are Christ's eyes peering back at you, is bold. Lets see how this goes.

A taste of Maui

Amidst many adventures that vary from:
cliff, house and rock jumping,
beach-slip and sliding,
island camping,
bbq and bon-firing,
midnight cave diving,
vivid snorkeling,
illegal turtle hugging,
being molested by a turtle (that is a story for another time),
spear fishing,
paddle boarding,
outrigger canoeing,
hiking, and
golfing,
there had been one remaining experience i craved.
That experience, was to be in a serene moment on a beach, engulfed in sunshine while watching the engulfer set upon the endless ocean, resting topless on a lawn chair, sand between the toes, and margarita resting in hand. Today that happened, and the smoke from my ash-ended cigar held in opposite hand of the margarita, exceeded the moment, and solidified the momery. There I sat with with the bearings of my creation on each side of me, mother on the left and father on the right. We sat nestled in under a tin roof that was pinnacle of the cove, and directly across from us the sun sat behind an island, igniting the sky. Competition with the conversation was provided by each clear blue wave as it softly crashed on the shore. This is moment, the idealistic moment, was made a reality, and all at once, i knew i was on and at the end of my vacation.
So now i lay less than 30 yards from that same beach, nestled on a friends couch, watching geckos discover the ceiling amongst the cover of a dark night. The stars are bright, and i will watch them until the hourly shower of rain comes, then go back inside and sleep until another day of tropical amusement is brought to life by the sun. That is, if the children that also live in this house don't wake earlier and decide they want another early morning wrestling match.
I still have one more day, then as the locals say, "Back to the mainland ya? Shoots."

Thank you God. Thank you God.

Oh and did i forget to mention that i just realized yesterday after being here for 6 days that i am three hours behind California, not ahead... wow...

A moment of humor.

Work is changing. This week there was a lot more chitchat in the trailer between my boss, a subcontractor, and myself this week. There was one moment that stands out above the others.

Inside our dusty trailer my boss and i were reclined and talking about something or other. I'm not really sure what; it could have been anything under the sun including current events, previous crazy experiences, funny stories, a joke, or something legitimately concerning our job site. Basically, we were "BS-ing" as usual (which is actually more educational than you would think).
My boss BS-es a lot, and with just about everybody. But that is one of his very effective tricks in supervising. You see, when a story is shared between two people, particularly people on different levels of business hierarchy (i.e. a boss and employee), there is an interesting connection that forms. BS-ing usually results in the listener of the story liking and feeling more comfortable with the teller. But the teller (usually the boss) still feels no pity to lessen any business or load of duty, simply because a story has been told, this still leaves him ultimately in control (or he has "Hand" as they would say in Seinfeld). Neither feel particularly close to one another after the story, nor do they even like each other more. Its a way of creating a business relationship. Nothing personal is shared and your remain fairly invulnerable to the other party. Your guts aren't spilled and nor is there often a lesson taught or a point disputed. A simple eccentric story is told, and usually the characters might as well have aliases. The story simply creates ground to interact with each other on, without necessitating a liking, nor negating or confusing possible roles. This is very key, for once the line of friendship is possibly breached, things become complicated. One party feels more comfortable to antagonize, argue, or simply deny a request. A party also can feel like more compelled to comply with a request, but this is rare. But when enough BS-ing does go on between one party or another, a friendship can be formed. My boss is included in enough of the stories he tells me that i have actually gotten to know him quite well. This is probably because i would because i have already shown my faithful obedience to the job and there is no fear in crossing the "danger friend zone" in the relationship. Otherwise i would probably lose my job, if ever chose to refuse orders.

So during one of these moments after lunch, Steve the framer stepped into the trailer with his toothless grin and looked at us both. Steve often comes in stealing food or just looking for a joke or a light of a smoke. He is a comical fellow, and always welcome. My boss said smirkingly, "What do you want?"

Steve replied, "I want some of your peanuts."

I responded, "You're always after someone's peanuts." At first they both grinned and were a bit shocked, for this was one of the first times i and divulged my humour to them. Then they both went into a large belly laugh, the kind that warms the heart and reminds children of Santa Clause. Steve, even amongst being the butt of the joke, turned and reached his hand out to be clasped in a manly, congratulatory way. I accepted it.