Out Walking tag:typepad.com,2003:weblog-272824 2010-03-14T23:46:23-04:00 looking for the true, the good & the beautiful -- in the world TypePad I Did It for Love tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451fedc69e201310f9ec4ff970c 2010-03-14T23:46:23-04:00 2010-03-14T23:46:23-04:00 I don't much like old things. I was hoping for a new attitude about them, a new sense of awe and wonder and curiosity, but when my wife and I went to the antiques extravaganza today, I hadn't changed, I still don't old things. "Honey, I'll make you a deal on that right there. I don't wanna wrap it and take it home. We'll even pay the sales tax." I don't need to bring another thing in the house, and I sure don't need more kitsch. I know, I know. It's not all like that. There's silver, china, furniture, ornaments, baby spoons, lamps, pottery, jewelry, and so on. I just don't need it. "Ma'am, I need that like I need another hole in the head, deal or not. Thanks anyway." I'm surrounded by useless inanimate objects. Once they had utility, once they meant something to someone, but now they are just for collecting, invested with no value, no utility. Prim and proper elderly ladies sit behind counters, surrounded by cases and cases of memorabilia, only these things are now separated from their original owners, the value they once had, sentimental or otherwise, divorced from them. Customers peer over glasses at prices, examining buttons, old keys, charms, and so on, negotiating prices. I did find a few books. Moll Flanders. Alice in Wonderland. Madame Bovary. The History of the United Netherlands. The Poems of Francis Thompson. ("I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;/ I fled Him, down the arches of the years;/ I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways/ Of my own mind, and in the midst of tears/ I hid from Him, and under running laughter.") "I pleaded, outlaw-wise, please free me from this antique extravaganza." I left the Hound with Madame Bovary, who may need the Hound of Heaven given her ways, and kept walking through the aisles. In ten minutes, I had seen all I needed to see. Just a bunch of old stuff. These are not, after all, the vessels of gold and silver that Nebuchadnezzar had carried away from Jerusalem and which Cyrus sent back with the Israelites when he allowed the exiles to return (Ezra 1). They are not revered historical documents, the Book of Kells, or some other antiquity. They are ordinary things that are old, that's all --- things which people like to collect. Like some record collectors I have known, some of these people likely have a problem, are even obsessed with collecting. Imagine what their homes look like --- cluttered dens of useless antiquities. What neuroses lurk in these aisles. What hidden madness. "Alice: But I don't want to go among mad people. The Cat: Oh, you can't help that. We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad. Alice: How do you know I'm mad? The Cat: You must be. Or you wouldn't have come here. Alice: And how do you know that you're mad? The Cat: To begin with, a dog's not mad. You grant that? Alice: I suppose so. The Cat: Well, then, you see, a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. No I growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad." You follow that? I think I'll put Alice back on the shelf in Stall # 24, right next to Moll Flanders. The snack concession just closed. Curses. I could read the first chapter of Madame Bovary. I might blush, so I decline. I lean back in my chair at the table just catty-cornered from Stall #14. I could just watch people. Old people and old things. And write, all over the program, the only paper I have, blue ink against pink paper, winding verse around the stalls and down the aisles. I paid $7 for this. Why you ask? I did it for love. I'm mad about the girl. Steve West

SCAN0002 I don't much like old things.  I was hoping for a new attitude about them, a new sense of awe and wonder and curiosity, but when my wife and I went to the antiques extravaganza today, I hadn't changed,  I still don't old things.

"Honey, I'll make you a deal on that right there.  I don't wanna wrap it and take it home.  We'll even pay the sales tax."

I don't need to bring another thing in the house, and I sure don't need more kitsch. I know, I know. It's not all like that.  There's silver, china, furniture, ornaments, baby spoons, lamps, pottery, jewelry, and so on.  I just don't need it.

"Ma'am, I need that like I need another hole in the head, deal or not.  Thanks anyway."

I'm surrounded by useless inanimate objects. Once they had utility, once they meant something to someone, but now they are just for collecting, invested with no value, no utility.  Prim and proper elderly ladies sit behind counters, surrounded by cases and cases of memorabilia, only these things are now separated from their original owners, the value they once had, sentimental or otherwise, divorced from them. Customers peer over glasses at prices, examining buttons, old keys, charms, and so on, negotiating prices.

I did find a few books.  Moll Flanders.  Alice in Wonderland.  Madame Bovary.  The History of the United Netherlands.  The Poems of Francis Thompson. ("I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;/ I fled Him, down the arches of the years;/ I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways/ Of my own mind, and in the midst of tears/ I hid from Him, and under running laughter.")  "I pleaded, outlaw-wise, please free me from this antique extravaganza." I left the Hound with Madame Bovary, who may need the Hound of Heaven given her ways, and kept walking through the aisles.  In ten minutes, I had seen all I needed to see.

Just a bunch of old stuff.  These are not, after all, the vessels of gold and silver that Nebuchadnezzar had carried away from Jerusalem and which Cyrus sent back with the Israelites when he allowed the exiles to return (Ezra 1).  They are not revered historical documents, the Book of Kells, or some other antiquity. They are ordinary things that are old, that's all --- things which people like to collect.  Like some record collectors I have known, some of these people likely have a problem, are even obsessed with collecting. Imagine what their homes look like --- cluttered dens of useless antiquities.  What neuroses lurk in these aisles.  What hidden madness.

"Alice: But I don't want to go among mad people.

The Cat: Oh, you can't help that.  We're all mad here.  I'm mad.  You're mad.

Alice: How do you know I'm mad?

The Cat: You must be. Or you wouldn't have come here.

Alice: And how do you know that you're mad?

The Cat: To begin with, a dog's not mad. You grant that?

Alice: I suppose so.

The Cat: Well, then, you see, a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. No I growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry.  Therefore I'm mad."

You follow that?  I think I'll put Alice back on the  shelf in Stall # 24, right next to Moll Flanders.  

The snack concession just closed.  Curses.

I could read the first chapter of Madame Bovary.  I might blush, so I decline.  I lean back in my chair at the table just catty-cornered from Stall #14. 

I could just watch people.  Old people and old things.  And write, all over the program, the only paper I have, blue ink against pink paper, winding verse around the stalls and down the aisles.

I paid $7 for this.  Why you ask?  

I did it for love.  I'm mad about the girl.


 On the 405: A Review of Jeff Larson's "Heart of the Valley" tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451fedc69e20120a928aa4d970b 2010-03-12T09:15:02-05:00 2010-03-13T16:46:18-05:00 For all the glitter and ridiculous excess of Southern California, there remains something alluring about its films, it sunshine, its beaches, and its music. More than anything, though, it is the sound of the place, its music, that evokes its sense of place, at least for an outsider like me. The first chords of "Wouldn't It Be Nice," off the great Pet Sounds, will take me there, as will the Seventies-soft-rock vibe of "Ventura Highway, America's hit 1972 single. Now, Jeff Larson transports me with the effervescent pop of his new release, Heart of the Valley --- eleven songs that are pure joy to hear and which unabashedly draw on the mid-Seventies sound of America and groups of similar ilk. I'm smitten. Nary a twit of angst, world-weariness, or political rant will you find on this selection of songs. While the melodies, Larson's silky voice, and writing, production, and playing of collaborator Garry Beckley are what immediately summon you, folkster that I am, it's the lyrics --- many penned by Beckley, but some standouts co-written or written by Larson --- that take me deeper and hold me. The "beloved" 405, the San Diego Freeway that snakes through the West LA area, one of the most-traveled and congested freeways in the world, an impressionistic picture of which adorns the cover of the CD, serves as an apt metaphor for the life swirling around the songs here. The 405 is an experience common to those in Southern California, no matter what the background or socio-economic status. In its shadow are blighted commercial areas as well as luxurious residential enclaves. So it forms a common experience of movement and travel informed by hopes and dreams, all keywords to the songs found here. Begin with the title cut, "Heart of the Valley," which tells us that "right through the middle/ on the 405/ you start to believe it/ as you come alive." It's song that calls us to "remember" a time when "time didn't matter" and asks us to "dream" and "hope" and "imagine." It's a ballad that really is the heart of the record, a kind of wistful nostalgia intertwined with hopeful expectancy. (It also has a beautiful vocal outro by Jeffrey Foskett.) The theme of movement and travel is carried on through "Sudden Soldier," where the narrator is in an airport watching soldiers en route to war, "the same old story/ for hope and glory," and in the hymn-like interlude, "Airport Smiles." It pops up later in "Calling" ("Time is a commodity/ that always gets away from me/ the counting off the days with nothing left to say") and "One Way Ticket" ("I've got no way to reach her/ and I'm out of time"). In spite of the wistfulness of some of the songs, the lyrics evince a hopefulness, a sense of promise, buoyed by jangly guitars, major chords, and percussion, as in the delightful "Minus Marci, with the belief that "loves been here all along/ smiling from the wings" or the faith and sense of commitment contained in "every drop of faith/ is part of the plan/ every step I take/ on every grain of sand/ there's no doubt/ we'll work it out." The closer, "One Lit Window," co-penned by Larson and Beckley, is my favorite, embodying a longing and sense of loss, something we can all identify with ("One lit window on the street tonight - is anyone home?") with hope and forward-looking commitment ("I'm hoping to mend the tear. . . . at least I'm trying.") That light in the window becomes an image of hope, and just as the image of the lit window lies under the disc in the CD case, so hope underlies all these songs, whether in their lyrics or in their summery sound. It makes the album a standout, given that there's so precious little of that quality in most music today. I recommend Heart of the Valley. Its shimmering sound and buoyant hope will lift you out of the dark and cold and right onto the 405, smack in the metaphoric heart of where dreams and hopes can come true. That's not, by the way, Southern California. Steve West

41UKb3eNqtL._SL160_AA115_ For all the glitter and ridiculous excess of Southern California, there remains something alluring about its films, it sunshine, its beaches, and its music.  More than anything, though, it is the sound of the place, its music, that evokes its sense of place, at least for an outsider like me. The first chords of "Wouldn't It Be Nice," off the great Pet Sounds, will take me there, as will the Seventies-soft-rock vibe of "Ventura Highway, America's hit 1972 single.  Now, Jeff Larson transports me with the effervescent pop of his new release, Heart of the Valley --- eleven songs that are pure joy to hear and which unabashedly draw on the mid-Seventies sound of America and groups of similar ilk.  I'm smitten.

Nary a twit of angst, world-weariness, or political rant will you find on this selection of songs.  While the melodies, Larson's silky voice, and writing, production, and playing of collaborator Garry Beckley are what immediately summon you, folkster that I am, it's the lyrics --- many penned by Beckley, but some standouts co-written or written by Larson --- that take me deeper and hold me. The "beloved" 405, the San Diego Freeway that snakes through the West LA area, one of the most-traveled and congested freeways in the world, an impressionistic picture of which adorns the cover of the CD, serves as an apt metaphor for the life swirling around the songs here.  The 405 is an experience common to those in Southern California, no matter what the background or socio-economic status.  In its shadow are blighted commercial areas as well as luxurious residential enclaves.  So it forms a common experience of movement and travel informed by hopes and dreams, all keywords to the songs found here.

Begin with the title cut, "Heart of the Valley," which tells us that "right through the middle/ on the 405/ you start to believe it/ as you come alive."  It's  song that calls us to "remember" a time when "time didn't matter" and asks us to "dream" and "hope" and "imagine."  It's a ballad that really is the heart of the record, a kind of wistful nostalgia intertwined with hopeful expectancy.  (It also has a beautiful vocal outro by Jeffrey Foskett.) The theme of movement and travel is carried on through "Sudden Soldier," where the narrator is in an airport watching soldiers en route to war, "the same old story/ for hope and glory," and in the hymn-like interlude, "Airport Smiles." It pops up later in "Calling" ("Time is a commodity/ that always gets away from me/ the counting off the days with nothing left to say") and "One Way Ticket" ("I've got no way to reach her/ and I'm out of time").

In spite of the wistfulness of some of the songs, the lyrics evince a hopefulness, a sense of promise, buoyed by jangly guitars, major chords, and percussion, as in the delightful "Minus Marci, with the belief that "loves been here all along/ smiling from the wings" or the faith and sense of commitment contained in "every drop of faith/ is part of the plan/ every step I take/ on every grain of sand/ there's no doubt/ we'll work it out."  The closer, "One Lit Window," co-penned by Larson and Beckley, is my favorite, embodying a longing and sense of loss, something we can all identify with ("One lit window on the street tonight - is anyone home?") with hope and forward-looking commitment ("I'm hoping to mend the tear. . . . at least I'm trying.")  That light in the window becomes an image of hope, and just as the image of the lit window lies under the disc in the CD case, so hope underlies all these songs, whether in their lyrics or in their summery sound.  It makes the album a standout, given that there's so precious little of that quality in most music today.

I recommend Heart of the Valley.  Its shimmering sound and buoyant hope will lift you out of the dark and cold and right onto the 405, smack in the metaphoric heart of where dreams and hopes can come true. That's not, by the way, Southern California.

 Dignity tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451fedc69e20120a916d84c970b 2010-03-09T21:32:51-05:00 2010-03-09T21:32:51-05:00 "[T]ake comfort: as it was with Jesus, so it is with us today. Trust and trustworthiness surround our lives. That which in the beginning granted us an infant peace is here yet again --- when we have been returned to helplessness. . . . If all my life, like Jesus's, is protected by the left hand and the right hand of God, why wouldn't I be able to speak peacefully of this terminal disease?" (Walter Wangerin, in Letters from the Land of Cancer)I visited my mother in a nursing home last Friday. When I arrived, the physical therapist was taking her to a group activity. She and various other residents, all by all appearances over 85, were making smoothies --- you know, fruit drinks. I listened in. "Ms. Wilson, do you want to make a smoothie?" "I can't swim." "Ms. Wilson, we're not swimming, we're making a drink, a smoothie." "I never touch the stuff." She looked put out, shocked that someone would offer her a mixed drink. What I enjoyed about the whole process was the way the women assisting the elderly folks asked them to do whatever they could do, assisting them where necessary but not trying to simply do it for them while they watched. I had more than one laugh, not at their expense but in much the same way as we laugh at young children. "What kind of fruit you want, Ms. Wilson? You like strawberries?" "What?" "Strawberries. You like strawberries?" "They'll do." "How about blueberries?" "Nope." She pursed her lips. The aide handed her a spoon and required her to pick up the strawberries, one by one, an excruciatingly slow process, as she dropped them about half the time or missed the cup. And yet the aide was unfailingly patient. "Now, you want milk or orange juice?" "Not milk." "OK then, let's go over to the refrigerator and get the orange juice." She helped Ms. Wilson stand up and, with her walker, slowly shuffle over to the refrigerator about ten feet away, open the door, and, with assistance, pick up the orange juice container. "That don't look like orange juice." "You're right." It was a squarish container unlike any I had seen. They helped her shuffle back to her chair. Sitting down heavily, she exhaled loudly and closed her eyes. "Let's let her rest. Too much excitement." Another elderly woman, who I was not introduced to, was sitting behind one of the aides. She had a mischievous smile on her face. Leaning forward she slapped one of the younger girls on the behind as she bent over the table. "Too much hanging out there, Ms. Jones? "Yeah, you needed that." "I better keep my eye on you." The aide roused Ms. Wilson and, with some difficulty, had her stand. "We're gonna put our fruit in the blender now, Ms. Wilson. Let's walk over there. Come on." After untangling her feet, Ms. Wilson moved toward the counter. "Now, take that cup of fruit and dump it in the blender." "The what?" "That thing right there. We're gonna mix it all up." Ms. Wilson dumped it in the blender. "Now, push that button." She guided her hand to the right button and Ms. Wilson pushed. Nothing. "Push it hard, now." Ms. Wilson pushed again. When the blender kicked in, it made a loud whirring noise. It startled Ms. Jones. She literally jumped out of her seat about three or four inches at the sound. I don't think I've ever seen anyone actually elevate like that, like a startled cat. Everyone laughed. On the whole, being with these residents of the nursing home was much like being in a preschool class. They enjoy the activities, some more than others. They are asked to do whatever they can do but, just like toddlers, need assitance, get distracted, and tire easily. They work and play alongside each other but mostly exist in their own world, not interacting much with each other. They cannot live independently any longer and suffer the indignity of minds and bodies that won't function as they once did. Yet what I sense in this home at least is that my mother and the other residents are treated as human beings, are valued and accorded dignity. Though they do so, not many may still know why it is right to do so, but in essence we value the aged because of the Jewish and Christian belief, still to some extent embedded in our culture, that they are made in God's image and thus are to be valued in spite of their lack of utility. Except for their need for health care, they are not important to our economy. They do not consume much, so they are outside the market economy. They cannot work, given failing bodies and minds. There may come a time here when their caregivers and family have to fight for their right to treatment, when the attitude of doctors may be to just "let them die peacefully." (That time has come in Europe.) But not yet, and hopefully never. Whenever I have seen my mother, she is dressed well, has makeup on, and is involved in something or has someone nearby attentive to her. She is valued. How we treat the aged is a measure of the character of our society. If they become expendable because they cannot produce or consume, because they embarrass us or inconvenience us, then we will all lose our dignity. As they are valued, I want to remind them --- remind my mother --- that the same Jesus who gave her peace as an infant (which, in a way, she is again), will give her peace now, when she has been returned to helplessness. Away from their childhood and adult homes, in a place not of their choosing, a "rest" home, may they rest in Jesus. And may we not forget. After all, they are who we will be. Steve West

Medium.3.19603

"[T]ake comfort: as it was with Jesus, so it is with us today.  Trust and trustworthiness surround our lives. That which in the beginning granted us an infant peace is here yet again --- when we have been returned to helplessness. . . . If all my life, like Jesus's, is protected by the left hand and the right hand of God, why wouldn't I be able to speak peacefully of this terminal disease?" 

(Walter Wangerin, in Letters from the Land of Cancer)

I visited my mother in a nursing home last Friday.  When I arrived, the physical therapist was taking her to a group activity.  She and various other residents, all by all appearances over 85, were making smoothies --- you know, fruit drinks.  I listened in.

"Ms. Wilson, do you want to make a smoothie?"

"I can't swim."

"Ms. Wilson, we're not swimming, we're making a drink, a smoothie."

"I never touch the stuff."  She looked put out, shocked that someone would offer her a mixed drink.

What I enjoyed about the whole process was the way the women assisting the elderly folks asked them to do whatever they could do, assisting them where necessary but not trying to simply do it for them while they watched.  I had more than one laugh, not at their expense but in much the same way as we laugh at young children.

"What kind of fruit you want, Ms. Wilson?  You like strawberries?"

"What?"

"Strawberries.  You like strawberries?"

"They'll do."

"How about blueberries?"

"Nope."  She pursed her lips.

The aide handed her a spoon and required her to pick up the strawberries, one by one, an excruciatingly slow process, as she dropped them about half the time or missed the cup.  And yet the aide was unfailingly patient.  

"Now, you want milk or orange juice?"

"Not milk."

"OK then, let's go over to the refrigerator and get the orange juice."  She helped Ms. Wilson stand up and, with her walker, slowly shuffle over to the refrigerator about ten feet away, open the door, and, with assistance, pick up the orange juice container.

"That don't look like orange juice."

"You're right."  It was a squarish container unlike any I had seen.

They helped her shuffle back to her chair.  Sitting down heavily, she exhaled loudly and closed her eyes.

"Let's let her rest.  Too much excitement."

Another elderly woman, who I was not introduced to, was sitting behind one of the aides.  She had a mischievous smile on her face.  Leaning forward she slapped one of the younger girls on the behind as she bent over the table.

"Too much hanging out there, Ms. Jones?

"Yeah, you needed that."

"I better keep my eye on you."

The aide roused Ms. Wilson and, with some difficulty, had her stand.

"We're gonna put our fruit in the blender now, Ms. Wilson.  Let's walk over there.  Come on."  After untangling her feet, Ms. Wilson moved toward the counter. "Now, take that cup of fruit and dump it in the blender."

"The what?"

"That thing right there.  We're gonna mix it all up."  Ms. Wilson dumped it in the blender.  "Now, push that button."  She guided her hand to the right button and Ms. Wilson pushed.  Nothing.  "Push it hard, now."  Ms. Wilson pushed again.

When the blender kicked in, it made a loud whirring noise.  It startled Ms. Jones.  She literally jumped out of her seat about three or four inches at the sound.  I don't think I've ever seen anyone actually elevate like that, like a startled cat.  Everyone laughed.

On the whole, being with these residents of the nursing home was much like being in a preschool class.  They enjoy the activities, some more than others.  They are asked to do whatever they can do but, just like toddlers, need assitance, get distracted, and tire easily.  They work and play alongside each other but mostly exist in their own world, not interacting much with each other.  They cannot live independently any longer and suffer the indignity of minds and bodies that won't function as they once did.

Yet what I sense in this home at least is that my mother and the other residents are treated as human beings, are valued and accorded dignity.  Though they do so, not many may still know why it is right to do so, but in essence we value the aged because of the Jewish and Christian belief, still to some extent embedded in our culture, that they are made in God's image and thus are to be valued in spite of their lack of utility.  Except for their need for health care, they are not important to our economy.  They do not consume much, so they are outside the market economy.  They cannot work, given failing bodies and minds.  There may come a time here when their caregivers and family have to fight for their right to treatment, when the attitude of doctors may be to just "let them die peacefully."  (That time has come in Europe.)  But not yet, and hopefully never.

Whenever I have seen my mother, she is dressed well, has makeup on, and is involved in something or has someone nearby attentive to her.  She is valued.  How we treat the aged is a measure of the character of our society.  If they become expendable because they cannot produce or consume, because they embarrass us or inconvenience us, then we will all lose our dignity.

As they are valued, I want to remind them --- remind my mother --- that the same Jesus who gave her peace as an infant (which, in a way, she is again), will give her peace now, when she has been returned to helplessness.  Away from their childhood and adult homes, in a place not of their choosing, a "rest" home, may they rest in Jesus.  And may we not forget.  After all, they are who we will be.

 God, Children, and the Limits of Parental Sovereignty tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451fedc69e20120a8c62e4b970b 2010-02-23T21:48:43-05:00 2010-03-02T18:42:36-05:00 "We are not capable of producing perfect followers of Christ, as if we were perfect ourselves. Our work cannot purchase anyone else's salvation or sanctification. Parents with unbelieving children, friends with children in jail, the discoveries of the geneticists, and the faith heroes in Hebrews 11 are all powerful reminders of this truth: We will parent imperfectly, our children will make their own choices, and God will mysteriously and wondrously use it all to advance his kingdom." (Leslie Leyland Fields, in "The Myth of the Perfect Parent") Fields' article in the January 2010 issue of Christianity Today is one of the most liberating and frightening things I have read this year. The myth she is counteracting is the belief that if we "train up a child in the way he should go," that he or she will in fact go that way, that is, that what we put in by way of parenting technique will most certainly yield a certain result: saved, Godly children. That is, if we do it right. That's the frightening part: that it may not. The liberating part is that I'm not responsible for my children's salvation or sanctification. I'm off the hook! But wait a minute. I'm not even responsible for my own salvation! If I can't fix myself, what makes me think I can fix my children? Ultimately, I need to trust God to take my mistakes and my successes in parenting and use them for His glory, entrusting my children's spiritual formation to Him. So, here's a few things I want to remember: First: My best moments as a parent, when I say the apt word, master a teachable moment, or display a Christlike attitude in the midst of a child meltdown may, for all intents and purposes, not have the desired effect on my children. It's like that wonderful moment when you're riding in the car and your child asks "how the people who die not hearing the gospel are saved," and you launch into an eloquent if partial explanation of what you know on the subject only to discover they stopped listening and donned IPod earbuds about 15 minutes ago and heard nothing after the initial windup. Oh well. It's like that. The best moments may have no discernible effect. And yet God is at work independently of what we think we're doing. Second: My worst moments as a parent, as when I spoke firmly (my word) as I screamed (their word) at the malevolent offspring who finger-painted the walls, probably won't produce young adults needing anger management or who become axe murderers. We make too much of ourselves, obsessing over our every indiscretion and parental failure. They've moved on. Like the family dog who got beat over the head with the newspaper for chasing cars, they forgive and forget, quite readily. Believe it or not, they don't believe in perfect parents, and even if they thought we were, that belief would in and of itself have the potential to create its own problems for them. Third: There is no technique that I can apply that will guarantee either saved or Godly children. They've heard the Gospel, but I can't make them recognize their need for it. They've seen the Gospel lived out, albeit imperfectly, and yet I can't make them want to live it even as I require their external conformity to its mandates. God may use parents, good or bad, in the spiritual formation of children --- or He may not. Our children may be on a different track, on another plane of existence, quite insulated from parental teaching which may seem like irrelevant gibberish or just plain boring lectures. And yet God will do His work. Fourth: I don't need another book on parenting. I tossed out Growing Children God's Way a long time ago. What I need is what I already have: faith, hope, and love. Faith is a gift God will give or already has given my children. (How do I know they have true faith? I don't.) I have hope because God can be trusted to work His will in their lives, to give them the gift of faith I was given, even though its evidence may be hidden or veiled at the moment. And love is only possible because God first loved us and forms the only parenting question I really need to ask myself: What does love require now, with this child, in this place? Fifth: I need to be faithful. I need to train by word and deed (mostly the latter), not because its results are guaranteed or its effects apparent. I need to pray, not because my prayers assure me of a certain child-product but because they connect me the One who can form faith and righteousness in my child. I can't use my lack of sovereignty as an excuse for being a slacker-Dad. God is pleased to use me, or not, in the spiritual life of my children. I just need to be faithful and yet remember I am not sovereign. He is. Thank God. I'll stop at five things to remember. That's quite enough. I'm not writing a book, after all. Fields sums it up well when she says that "[p]arenting, like all tasks under the sun, is intended as an endeavor of love, risk, perseverance, and, above all, faith. It is faith rather than formula, grace rather than guarantees, steadfastness rather than success that bridges the gap between our own parenting efforts, and what, by God's grace, our children grow up to become." And don't forget hope, the hope for what we don't already see but in faith believe will come (Rom. 8:24). We'll need it. I need it. Steve West
Medium.1.8268

"We are not capable of producing perfect followers of Christ, as if we were perfect ourselves. Our work cannot purchase anyone else's salvation or sanctification. Parents with unbelieving children, friends with children in jail, the discoveries of the geneticists, and the faith heroes in Hebrews 11 are all powerful reminders of this truth: We will parent imperfectly, our children will make their own choices, and God will mysteriously and wondrously use it all to advance his kingdom."  
(Leslie Leyland Fields, in "The Myth of the Perfect Parent")

Fields' article in the January 2010 issue of Christianity Today is one of the most liberating and frightening things I have read this year.  The myth she is counteracting is the belief that if we "train up a child in the way he should go," that he or she will in fact go that way, that is, that what we put in by way of parenting technique will most certainly yield a certain result: saved, Godly children.  That is, if we do it right.  That's the frightening part: that it may not.  The liberating part is that I'm not responsible for my children's salvation or sanctification.  I'm off the hook!  But wait a minute.  I'm not even responsible for my own salvation!  If I can't fix myself, what makes me think I can fix my children?  Ultimately, I need to trust God to take my mistakes and my successes in parenting and use them for His glory, entrusting my children's spiritual formation to Him.  So, here's a few things I want to remember:

First:  My best moments as a parent, when I say the apt word, master a teachable moment, or display a Christlike attitude in the midst of a child meltdown may, for all intents and purposes, not have the desired effect on my children.  It's like that wonderful moment when you're riding in the car and your child asks "how the people who die not hearing the gospel are saved," and you launch into an eloquent if partial explanation of what you know on the subject only to discover they stopped listening and donned IPod earbuds about 15 minutes ago and heard nothing after the initial windup.  Oh well.  It's like that.  The best moments may have no discernible effect.  And yet God is at work independently of what we think we're doing.

Second:  My worst moments as a parent, as when I spoke firmly (my word) as I screamed (their word) at the malevolent offspring who finger-painted the walls, probably won't produce young adults needing anger management or who become axe murderers.  We make too much of ourselves, obsessing over our every indiscretion and parental failure.  They've moved on.  Like the family dog who got beat over the head with the newspaper for chasing cars, they forgive and forget, quite readily.  Believe it or not, they don't believe in perfect parents, and even if they thought we were, that belief would in and of itself have the potential to create its own problems for them. 

Third:  There is no technique that I can apply that will guarantee either saved or Godly children.  They've heard the Gospel, but I can't make them recognize their need for it. They've seen the Gospel lived out, albeit imperfectly, and yet I can't make them want to live it even as I require their external conformity to its mandates.  God may use parents, good or bad, in the spiritual formation of children --- or He may not.  Our children may be on a different track, on another plane of existence, quite insulated from parental teaching which may seem like irrelevant gibberish or just plain boring lectures.  And yet God will do His work.

Fourth:  I don't need another book on parenting.  I tossed out Growing Children God's Way a long time ago.  What I need is what I already have: faith, hope, and love.  Faith is a gift God will give or already has given my children.  (How do I know they have true faith? I don't.)  I have hope because God can be trusted to work His will in their lives, to give them the gift of faith I was given, even though its evidence may be hidden or veiled at the moment.  And love is only possible because God first loved us and forms the only parenting question I really need to ask myself: What does love require now, with this child, in this place?

Fifth:  I need to be faithful.  I need to train by word and deed (mostly the latter), not because its results are guaranteed or its effects apparent.  I need to pray, not because my prayers assure me of a certain child-product but because they connect me the One who can form faith and righteousness in my child.  I can't use my lack of sovereignty as an excuse for being a slacker-Dad.  God is pleased to use me, or not, in the spiritual life of my children.  I just need to be faithful and yet remember I am not sovereign.  He is.  Thank God.

I'll stop at five things to remember.  That's quite enough.  I'm not writing a book, after all.

Fields sums it up well when she says that "[p]arenting, like all tasks under the sun, is intended as an endeavor of love, risk, perseverance, and, above all, faith. It is faith rather than formula, grace rather than guarantees, steadfastness rather than success that bridges the gap between our own parenting efforts, and what, by God's grace, our children grow up to become."  And don't forget hope, the hope for what we don't already see but in faith believe will come (Rom. 8:24).  We'll need it.  I need it.

 Heaven's Waiting Room tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451fedc69e20120a88f917b970b 2010-02-11T23:37:27-05:00 2010-02-11T23:37:27-05:00 "There are no ordinary people. You have never met a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations, these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat." (C.S. Lewis) "Whose cell phone is that? Turn your cell phone off, Ma'am. TURN YOUR CELL PHONE OFF! NOW." It's a rotund African-American security guard, yelling at us all, all of us waiting in the uniform blue seats in the square room, with the signs on the walls of do's and don'ts ---- a non-descript government building. Take a number (You are a number.) Take a seat (Behave.) Go to the appropriate window when your number is called. (Red Hall, Blue Hall, A, B, C, D). "Sir, please turn your phone off." "It is off. I'm just reading emails." And the weather. And the stock report. Texting home. Updating my status. I have a lot to do. I'm important. And who does this guy think he is, I want to know. "The sign says 'no electronic devices.' Sometimes I can be a little lenient, you know, but if someone cops an attitude, if they're gonna be a hard ___ (Did he really say that?) I'll show 'em the door. You know what I'm saying? You know?" "No problem. I know what you mean." (Not really.) That'd be just great. The white man in a suit (the only person in a suit) gets kicked out of the Social Security Administration office. I put it away. Now what? No book, no email, no blog reading, no backgammon games. I look up for the first time and look around me. Where do these people come from? None of them look like people I work with, or even people I shop with or eat in restaurants with. All ages, Oriental, African-American, Latino, poorly dressed, half-dressed, several obese women and men, some obviously handicapped, some lethargic (perhaps out of work?). I hate to say it, but I have a realization that I've got an attitude. I don't want to wait. I particularly don't want to wait with these people. They're not like me, or they? A creeping snobbery threatens me. I begin to generalize. (Probably don't need benefits. Feeding at the federal trough.) I'm uncomfortable. Then it dawns on me that these are the very people I will share heaven with. I am going to heaven by God's grace, not my goodness (which there is precious little of), not as one of the beautiful all together well-dressed intelligent articulate well-mannered slightly but not too obnoxiously hip people, but as one reconstructed by Him, reformed by Him, redressed by Him. And some of these people will be there too. And. . . some. . . of. . .these. . . people. . . will. . . be. . . there. . . too. They will. Everyone should have to go to the Social Security Administration office and wait. Everyone has to go to DMV for their license renewal. Everyone should sit in a state district courtroom and watch the people who parade through. Everyone has to serve on a jury. And everyone should go to Wal-Mart on a weeknight after midnight and watch the clientele. They may not be like you and me. And yet they are like you and me. These experiences are great levelers. They remind us that as different as we are, we are all human, all needy, all sometimes stumbling through life by God's grace, and all saints or devils behind whatever human face or facade we have. Those people in Heaven? They're going to look like these people here, only we'll be so warmed by their souls that we'll not see any external blemish. It doesn't say anywhere in the Bible that we'll look the same, that some won't be weightier than others, some shorter, some taller, that some won't talk a lot, more than us, or have annoying habits. None of that will matter. So I try for a minute, right here, to imagine the loud lady across from me in Heaven with me. I'm trying. I think I need a better imagination. "Number 22, Window 14, Red Hall." That's me. Goodbye immortals. Goodbye saints. Goodbye devils. See some of you in Heaven. Maybe even you, lady. Steve West

Huge.96.480020 "There are no ordinary people. You have never met a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations, these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat."  (C.S. Lewis)

"Whose cell phone is that? Turn your cell phone off, Ma'am.  TURN YOUR CELL PHONE OFF!  NOW."

It's a rotund African-American security guard, yelling at us all, all of us waiting in the uniform blue seats in the square room, with the signs on the walls of do's and don'ts ---- a non-descript government building. Take a number (You are a number.)  Take a seat (Behave.)  Go to the appropriate window when your number is called.  (Red Hall, Blue Hall, A, B, C, D).

"Sir, please turn your phone off."

"It is off.  I'm just reading emails." And the weather.  And the stock report. Texting home.  Updating my status.  I have a lot to do.  I'm important.  And who does this guy think he is, I want to know.

"The sign says 'no electronic devices.'  Sometimes I can be a little lenient, you know, but if someone cops an attitude, if they're gonna be a hard ___ (Did he really say that?) I'll show 'em the door.  You know what I'm saying?  You know?"

"No problem.  I know what you mean."  (Not really.)  That'd be just great. The white man in a suit (the only person in a suit) gets kicked out of the Social Security Administration office.  I put it away.  Now what? No book, no email, no blog reading, no backgammon games.  I look up for the first time and look around me. Where do these people come from?  None of them look like people I work with, or even people I shop with or eat in restaurants with.  All ages, Oriental, African-American, Latino, poorly dressed, half-dressed, several obese women and men, some obviously handicapped, some lethargic (perhaps out of work?).

I hate to say it, but I have a realization that I've got an attitude.  I don't want to wait. I particularly don't want to wait with these people.  They're not like me, or they?  A creeping snobbery threatens me.  I begin to generalize. (Probably don't need benefits.  Feeding at the federal trough.)  I'm uncomfortable.

Then it dawns on me that these are the very people I will share heaven with.  I am going to heaven by God's grace, not my goodness (which there is precious little of), not as one of the beautiful all together well-dressed intelligent articulate well-mannered slightly but not too obnoxiously hip people, but as one reconstructed by Him, reformed by Him, redressed by Him.  And some of these people will be there too. 
And. . . some. . . of. . .these. . . people. . . will. . . be. . . there. . . too.  They will.

Everyone should have to go to the Social Security Administration office and wait.

Everyone has to go to DMV for their license renewal.

Everyone should sit in a state district courtroom and watch the people who parade through.

Everyone has to serve on a jury.

And everyone should go to Wal-Mart on a weeknight after midnight and watch the clientele.  They may not be like you and me.  And yet they are like you and me.

These experiences are great levelers.  They remind us that as different as we are, we are all human, all needy, all sometimes stumbling through life by God's grace, and all saints or devils behind whatever human face or facade we have.

Those people in Heaven?  They're going to look like these people here, only we'll be so warmed by their souls that we'll not see any external blemish.  It doesn't say anywhere in the Bible that we'll look the same, that some won't be weightier than others, some shorter, some taller, that some won't talk a lot, more than us, or have annoying habits.  None of that will matter.

So I try for a minute, right here, to imagine the loud lady across from me in Heaven with me.

I'm trying.

I think I need a better imagination.

"Number 22, Window 14, Red Hall."

That's me.  Goodbye immortals.  Goodbye saints.  Goodbye devils.  See some of you in Heaven.  Maybe even you, lady.

 Begin Here, Now: A Review of "The Hole In Our Gospel, by Richard Stearns tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451fedc69e20120a86351ad970b 2010-02-04T21:10:49-05:00 2010-02-04T21:10:49-05:00 "I believe we have reduced the gospel from a dynamic and beautiful symphony of God's love for and in the world to a bare and strident monotone." Go to any third-world country and the immensity of the need is overwhelming. It's tempting to despair of making any difference. When you leave and return home, normal routines can insulate you from this sea of lack, from the images, sounds, and smells of a world deprived of the most basic of necessities. What are you to do? Assuage your guilt by sponsoring a child? Try not to think about it? From his first trip to the third-world country of Uganda, Richard Stearns, President of the Christian relief organization, World Vision, has been asking that question: What do I do? What, in fact, do we do? The Hole In Our Gospel is his attempt to wrestle with those questions, challenging both himself and the American church to a whole gospel, to a gospel that puts feet to its words. Part biography, part catalog of need, and part sermon, Stearns issues a wake up call to Christians in America. By our pietistic emphasis and distraction by materialism, he says we have robbed the Gospel of its core, of it life-changing, society-renewing power. Appropriately beginning with the Gospel, he demonstrates how it extends beyond just a simple transaction, a decision point of faith, to kingdom living. Whatever else he says in the book, he roots his challenges in Scripture, in a Gospel of faith and works. This is personal --- so much so that as the reader you never have the sense you're being lectured or talked down to. The tendency not to trust God, not to act in faith and obedience, is one Stearns recounts from having lived it. A Christian, a churchgoer, and the successful head of a major corporation, Stearns gave up a great deal to take the job as President of World Vision. More than lost income, though, was lost pride, as he felt like he had nothing to offer the organization. As successful as he was, he could not see what he had to offer the organization. He felt scared and helpless. But the question he wrestled with then is the same one for us all: Are we willing to be open to God's will for our life? There are plenty of statistics here, numbers that numb the mind and stir the heart. 854 million people do not have enough food to sustain them. 25,000 people die each day of hunger. Lacking access to clean water, five million people die each year to water-related illnesses. One-third of the world's population is infected with the TB bacillus (that's two billion people). And yet he balances this bad news with good news. The under-five mortality rate has been cut in half since 1970. Polio has been virtually eradicated. Adult literacy has increased from 43 to 77 percent since 1970. Shockingly, he points out that the tithe given by Christian churches averages two percent of income, demonstrating how adept we are at holding onto our money and yet how much need would be met if we simply gave the full tithe. There's more, bad and good, but the point is that he doesn't beat us up with statistics but simply opens a window into the challenge, helping us take the focus off ourselves and our felt needs that pale in comparison. Statistics and scripture are animated by abundant personal anecdotes, stories of families and children encountered in other countries and how simple things made a tremendous difference in their lives. The cynic in us wants to say so what, what does one person matter, and yet some of these stories show the power of one person who does small things with great love. He challenges us to take our time, talents (all that is uniquely ours), and our money and use them, to fill the hole in our Gospel by beginning where we are. In the end it's a challenge to do two things: Go, and give. That's all. So, will you? Will I? As I told a friend the other day, rather than asking why you should go, or why you should give, rather ask why you shouldn't go, and why you shouldn't give. Presume that the love of Christ always pushes us out, even to the edge. Let God stop us. Let's begin here. Now. He took me a while to read this book. It's not that it's long, but simply required self-examination along the way. It comes with a helpful study guide that may make it suitable for missions committees or small groups. Just read it. You'll change. Steve West

51pnAvUiESL._SL500_AA240_"I believe we have reduced the gospel from a dynamic and beautiful symphony of God's love for and in the world to a bare and strident monotone."

Go to any third-world country and the immensity of the need is overwhelming.  It's tempting to despair of making any difference.  When you leave and return home, normal routines can insulate you from this sea of lack, from the images, sounds, and smells of a world deprived of the most basic of necessities.  What are you to do?  Assuage your guilt by sponsoring a child?  Try not to think about it?

From his first trip to the third-world country of Uganda, Richard Stearns, President of the Christian relief organization, World Vision, has been asking that question: What do I do?  What, in fact, do we do?  The Hole In Our Gospel is his attempt to wrestle with those questions, challenging both himself and the American church to a whole gospel, to a gospel that puts feet to its words.  Part biography, part catalog of need, and part sermon, Stearns issues a wake up call to Christians in America.  By our pietistic emphasis and distraction by materialism, he says we have robbed the Gospel of its core, of it life-changing, society-renewing power.  Appropriately beginning with the Gospel, he demonstrates how it extends beyond just a simple transaction, a decision point of faith, to kingdom living.  Whatever else he says in the book, he roots his challenges in Scripture, in a Gospel of faith and works.

This is personal --- so much so that as the reader you never have the sense you're being lectured or talked down to.  The tendency not to trust God, not to act in faith and obedience, is one Stearns recounts from having lived it.  A Christian, a churchgoer, and the successful head of a major corporation, Stearns gave up a great deal to take the job as President of World Vision.  More than lost income, though, was lost pride, as he felt like he had nothing to offer the organization.  As successful as he was, he could not see what he had to offer the organization.  He felt scared and helpless.  But the question he wrestled with then is the same one for us all: Are we willing to be open to God's will for our life?

There are plenty of statistics here, numbers that numb the mind and stir the heart. 854 million people do not have enough food to sustain them.  25,000 people die each day of hunger.  Lacking access to clean water, five million people die each year to water-related illnesses.  One-third of the world's population is infected with the TB bacillus (that's two billion people).  And yet he balances this bad news with good news.  The under-five mortality rate has been cut in half since 1970.  Polio has been virtually eradicated.   Adult literacy has increased from 43 to 77 percent since 1970.  Shockingly, he points out that the tithe given by Christian churches averages two percent of income, demonstrating how adept we are at holding onto our money and yet how much need would be met if we simply gave the full tithe.  There's more, bad and good, but the point is that he doesn't beat us up with statistics but simply opens a window into the challenge, helping us take the focus off ourselves and our felt needs that pale in comparison.

Statistics and scripture are animated by abundant personal anecdotes, stories of families and children encountered in other countries and how simple things made a tremendous difference in their lives.  The cynic in us wants to say so what, what does one person matter, and yet some of these stories show the power of one person who does small things with great love.  He challenges us to take our time, talents (all that is uniquely ours), and our money and use them, to fill the hole in our Gospel by beginning where we are.  In the end it's a challenge to do two things:  Go, and give.  That's all.

So, will you?  Will I?  As I told a friend the other day, rather than asking why you should go, or why you should give, rather ask why you shouldn't go, and why you shouldn't give.  Presume that the love of Christ always pushes us out, even to the edge.  Let God stop us.  Let's begin here.  Now.

He took me a while to read this book.  It's not that it's long, but simply required self-examination along the way.  It comes with a helpful study guide that may make it suitable for missions committees or small groups.  Just read it.  You'll change.

 The Room of the World tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451fedc69e20120a835a79a970b 2010-01-31T18:02:25-05:00 2010-02-01T20:31:05-05:00 While we can't pull back the cloak of eternity and peek behind the "In the beginning, God" of Genesis 1:1, to know all that God has been up to in an eternity past (if "past" is even a meaningful way to address the silence of that eternity), it is not all mystery. If He is changeless --- if in fact his character is immutable --- then who He is as represented to us in Scripture is who He was even before Creation. He was the same then as He is now as He will be in the future to come. He is timeless and changeless. What a comfort. Everything else changes. Yesterday we were blanketed with a nice snow, something not terribly common where I live. Normal routines are upset, yet in a good way. Time to clean house! My wife and I braced ourselves, opened the door to our college-bound son's room (while he was out), and began trying to sift, save, salvage, and (serendipitously) share the memories of his 18 years. It's all here. Rare is it that he actually throws things away. Things mean something to him, as they are visual reminders of interests, memories, and life, rooting him. Not so in the room across the hall (sibling), where what matters is what is now, where possessions are expendable. Buried in a drawer is the carefully organized coin collection of his childhood, each compartment labeled in a child's handwriting, a one-time interest from which he has moved on. There are Cub Scout Pinewood derby awards, pieces of paper with elaborate train and then aircraft designs, and scores of cassette tapes (that dates him), CDs, and books of stories. We discovered unopened gifts from Christmas gone by, models, bead work, knitting paraphernalia, and more. Underneath a pile of miscellany is a wooden desk we sometimes forget is the small desk at which he sat in childhood. To work in his room is to discover a life, to see what interested him, what occupied his time. It is to discover him. And as he moves on with life, it's a comfort to know that the child he was he in essence remains, is what he is and will be --- that while he will grow and mature, he will not, even for eternity, be someone else, be someone we do not recognize. Coming to faith, we may be new creations thank God but, in the end, we are not different persons --- the essence of our personality, as deep and mysterious as that might be, remains, even for eternity. What a comfort. Everything else changes. Cleaning that room yesterday was an exercise of stewardly care for what my son imagined, created, and did for 18 years. I might not have said it then, but ask me now and I might say, in the words of Genesis 2:15, that I was tilling and keeping creation --- his creation, the room of his world, the outpouring of his life. I had no right to destroy anything, just rearrange, properly care for, and take care of what he had. OK, so I did throw away the broken plastic airplane, an agonizing decision that had to be made jointly by my wife and I. But mostly, we need to ask him about what we do, do our best to cultivate the life he gave the room, and help it be a place that becomes more of what he already is. Rightly understood, we're making it a place that better glorifies him, not in the sense that we worship him or stroke his ego, but in the sense that it better reflects the person God made him to be. Never knew people could think so deeply about cleaning a room, did you? It was a snow day. I had time on my hands. Idle thoughts are fertile ground for philosophizing, you know. Sometimes we act as if we own the world. We don't. The bright red cardinal that just landed on the snow outside my window was dreamed up by God, created for His glory, and exists to glorify him, to, if nothing else, be enjoyed by him. The snow that fell has been a beautiful playground for many kids and even many more adults. But it's enough that He enjoyed it. Everything matters like that. It's His stuff, not ours. We can enjoy it, stand in awe at the mind that dreamed it up and molded and shaped it, grumble at its messiness and the clutter of a Person who never stops imagining, creating, recreating, tearing down, preserving, scribbling, drawing, and telling us. . . telling us every day that He loves the world, that He loves what he made, and who will one day put all things right --- will rearrange, reorder, renew, and even resurrect it all. It is, after all, His room. What a comfort. But my son is not Him, of course, is good but not all good like Him, naturally, and this room is not the world, after all, so full of distractions and half-realized or poorly-tended creations. Right now, I need to know what to do with all these old baseball cards, this book full of cut outs of vacuum cleaners (an old fascination), and the rock polishing set, for starters. I haven't even dared look under the bed. Everything changes, but not my son, and certainly not God. They're timeless, eternal. And while my son's room just gets bigger next year along with his dreams, his creations, and his messes, the One who dreamed him up will just keep remaking him into more of who he really is or is meant to be, into more my son. And that really is a comfort to me. Today, looking around his cluttered room, that gives me hope --- for his room and the room of this world. Steve West

Huge.46.232470While we can't pull back the cloak of eternity and peek behind the "In the beginning, God" of Genesis 1:1, to know all that God has been up to in an eternity past (if "past" is even a meaningful way to address the silence of that eternity), it is not all mystery.  If He is changeless --- if in fact his character is immutable --- then who He is as represented to us in Scripture is who He was even before Creation.  He was the same then as He is now as He will be in the future to come.  He is timeless and changeless.

What a comfort.

Everything else changes.

Yesterday we were blanketed with a nice snow, something not terribly common where I live.  Normal routines are upset, yet in a good way.  Time to clean house!  My wife and I braced ourselves, opened the door to our college-bound son's room (while he was out), and began trying to sift, save, salvage, and (serendipitously) share the memories of his 18 years.  It's all here.  Rare is it that he actually throws things away.  Things mean something to him, as they are visual reminders of interests, memories, and life, rooting him.  Not so in the room across the hall (sibling), where what matters is what is now, where possessions are expendable. 

Buried in a drawer is the carefully organized coin collection of his childhood, each compartment labeled in a child's handwriting, a one-time interest from which he has moved on.  There are Cub Scout Pinewood derby awards, pieces of paper with elaborate train and then aircraft designs, and scores of cassette tapes (that dates him), CDs, and books of stories.  We discovered unopened gifts from Christmas gone by, models, bead work, knitting paraphernalia, and more.  Underneath a pile of miscellany is a wooden desk we sometimes forget is the small desk at which he sat in childhood.  To work in his room is to discover a life, to see what interested him, what occupied his time.  It is to discover him.  And as he moves on with life, it's a comfort to know that the child he was he in essence remains, is what he is and will be --- that while he will grow and mature, he will not, even for eternity, be someone else, be someone we do not recognize.   Coming to faith, we may be new creations thank God but, in the end, we are not different persons --- the essence of our personality, as deep and mysterious as that might be, remains, even for eternity.

What a comfort.

Everything else changes.

Cleaning that room yesterday was an exercise of stewardly care for what my son imagined, created, and did for 18 years.  I might not have said it then, but ask me now and I might say, in the words of Genesis 2:15, that I was tilling and keeping creation --- his creation, the room of his world, the outpouring of his life.  I had no right to destroy anything, just rearrange, properly care for, and take care of what he had. OK, so I did throw away the broken plastic airplane, an agonizing decision that had to be made jointly by my wife and I.  But mostly, we need to ask him about what we do, do our best to cultivate the life he gave the room, and help it be a place that becomes more of what he already is.  Rightly understood, we're making it a place that better glorifies him, not in the sense that we worship him or stroke his ego, but in the sense that it better reflects the person God made him to be.

Never knew people could think so deeply about cleaning a room, did you?  It was a snow day.  I had time on my hands.  Idle thoughts are fertile ground for philosophizing, you know.

Sometimes we act as if we own the world. We don't.  The bright red cardinal that just landed on the snow outside my window was dreamed up by God, created for His glory, and exists to glorify him, to, if nothing else, be enjoyed by him.  The snow that fell has been a beautiful playground for many kids and even many more adults.  But it's enough that He enjoyed it.  Everything matters like that.  It's His stuff, not ours.  We can enjoy it, stand in awe at the mind that dreamed it up and molded and shaped it, grumble at its messiness and the clutter of a Person who never stops imagining, creating, recreating, tearing down, preserving, scribbling, drawing, and telling us. . . telling us every day that He loves the world, that He loves what he made, and who will one day put all things right --- will rearrange, reorder, renew, and even resurrect it all.  It is, after all, His room.

What a comfort.

But my son is not Him, of course, is good but not all good like Him, naturally, and this room is not the world, after all, so full of distractions and half-realized or poorly-tended creations.  Right now, I need to know what to do with all these old baseball cards, this book full of cut outs of vacuum cleaners (an old fascination), and the rock polishing set, for starters. I haven't even dared look under the bed.

Everything changes, but not my son, and certainly not God.  They're timeless, eternal.  And while my son's room just gets bigger next year along with his dreams, his creations, and his messes, the One who dreamed him up will just keep remaking him into more of who he really is or is meant to be, into more my son.

And that really is a comfort to me. Today, looking around his cluttered room, that gives me hope --- for his room and the room of this world.

 "The Little Book" tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451fedc69e2012876d83723970c 2010-01-14T23:33:43-05:00 2010-01-14T23:33:43-05:00 [I first published this post in January 2006, and I still love this book, particularly in its illustrated edition. It is a testament to the power of brevity, the timelessness of wit and good humor, and the importance of good grammar (no matter what the post-moderns say). You should get a copy and read it, just for fun first, then for grammar, then as a model of good writing.] Language is a gift, no doubt, but one that is much abused. Few heed the admonitions of scripture or good sense to be "quick to listen, and slow to speak" (Js. 1:19) or remember the reward of an apt word over an inept pronouncement. How many times I have spoken, or written, only to realize what dribble hangs in air or rests on paper? Not so with E.B. White. You'll recognize White's name as the author of Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little, two children's classics that were much loved in our home, but his prose ranged beyond children's stories. He wrote a daily column or essay for The New Yorker for many years (before my time). However, before I knew any of these other accomplishments and before I had children to read to, I knew him as the apparent co-author of the bible of English usage, The Elements of Style. The 'little book," as White's Cornell professor William Strunk affectionately called it, was originally written by Strunk and privately published for his students and years later revised and modestly enlarged by White at his publisher's request, after Strunk had died. The book is a model of brevity. It says things like "Do not overstate," or "Do not explain too much," "Omit needless words," "Avoid fancy words," or simply "Be clear. All are issued in just such commanding tones, and the writer, properly chastened, returns to his craft -- whether letter, article, or novel -- with renewed vigor. I know I do. The injunction "be clear" could not be more clear, and yet the authors' three-paragraph rationale is both fun and informative to read. Listen: Muddiness is not merely a disturber of prose, it is also a destroyer of life, of hope: death on the highway caused by a badly worded highway sign, heartbreak among lovers caused by a misplaced phrase in a well-intentioned letter, anguish of a traveler expecting to be met at a railway station and not being met because of a slipshod telegram. Think of the tragedies rooted in ambiguity, and be clear! When you say something, make sure you have said it. The chances of your having said it are only fair. Oh, the pitfalls of language, the litter of unclarity. "Be obscure clearly," he says, if obscure is what you want. Say what you want to say. Say it well. Language matters. Knowingly or unknowingly, in fashioning rules, in emphasizing clarity and brevity, Strunk and White were mimicking the Author of Life, whose first recorded words over creation were simply "Let there be light." No flowery or fanciful language. Simply that: "Let there be light." In contrast, in Eve's first recorded words, she actually adds words to what God had so clearly said (as in, ". . . and you must not touch it, or you will die"), and so is born the news commentator. And still we go on. One wonders if God sometimes regrets having given us language, and yet, even that he must have called "good." Remembering Strunk, his college professor, White says this: In the days when I was sitting in his class, he omitted so many needless words, and omitted them so forcibly and with such eagerness and obvious relish, that he often seemed to be in the position of having shortchanged himself --- a man left with nothing more to say and yet with time to fill, a radio prophet who had out-distanced the clock. Will Strunk got out of the predicament by a simple trick: he uttered every sentence three times. When he delivered his oration on brevity to the class, he leaned over his desk, grasped his coat lapels in his hands, and, in a husky, conspiratorial voice, said,"Rule Seventeen. Omit needless words! Omit needless words! Omit needless words!" At that, I can imagine him packing his briefcase and leaving the classroom, a visible demonstration of his three-word point. Politicians, pundits, and pastors take heed! Omit needless words! And as Strunk often said, "If you don't know how to pronounce a word, say it loud!" Better to be wrong than irresolute or inaudible, he would say. I recommend The Elements if Style, as well as The Essays of E.B. White (an immensely pleasurable read on various topics), or, failing that, Charlotte's Web or Stuart Little. They are models of clarity, brevity, and style, and full of life and humor -- like hearing God talk. Steve West


020530902x01_scthumbzzz_1[I first published this post in January 2006, and I still love this book, particularly in its illustrated edition.  It is a testament to the power of brevity, the timelessness of wit and good humor, and the importance of good grammar (no matter what the post-moderns say).  You should get a copy and read it, just for fun first, then for grammar, then as a model of good writing.]

Language is a gift, no doubt, but one that is much abused.  Few heed the admonitions of scripture or good sense to be "quick to listen, and slow to speak" (Js. 1:19) or remember the reward of an apt word over an inept pronouncement.  How many times I have spoken, or written, only to realize what dribble hangs in air or rests on paper?  Not so with E.B. White.

You'll recognize White's name as the author of Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little, two children's classics that were much loved in our home, but his prose ranged beyond children's stories.  He wrote a daily column or essay for The New Yorker for many years (before my time).  However, before I knew any of these other accomplishments and before I had children to read to, I knew him as the apparent co-author of the bible of English usage, The Elements of Style.   The 'little book," as White's Cornell professor William Strunk affectionately called it, was originally written by Strunk and privately published for his students and years later revised and modestly enlarged by White at his publisher's request, after Strunk had died.

The book is a model of brevity.  It says things like "Do not overstate," or "Do not explain too much," "Omit needless words," "Avoid fancy words," or simply "Be clear.  All are issued in just such commanding tones, and the writer, properly chastened, returns to his craft -- whether letter, article, or novel -- with renewed vigor.  I know I do.

The injunction "be clear" could not be more clear, and yet the authors' three-paragraph rationale is both fun and informative to read.  Listen:

Muddiness is not merely a disturber of prose, it is also a destroyer of life, of hope: death on the highway caused by a badly worded highway sign, heartbreak among lovers caused by a misplaced phrase in a well-intentioned letter, anguish of a traveler expecting to be met at a railway station and not being met because of a slipshod telegram. Think of the tragedies rooted in ambiguity, and be clear!  When you say something, make sure you have said it.  The chances of your having said it are only fair.

Oh, the pitfalls of language, the litter of unclarity.  "Be obscure clearly," he says, if obscure is what you want.  Say what you want to say. Say it well.  Language matters.

Knowingly or unknowingly, in fashioning rules, in emphasizing clarity and brevity, Strunk and White were mimicking the Author of Life, whose first recorded words over creation were simply "Let there be light."  No flowery or fanciful language.  Simply that: "Let there be light."  In contrast, in Eve's first recorded words, she actually adds words to what God had so clearly said (as in, ". . . and you must not touch it, or you will die"), and so is born the news commentator.  And still we go on.  One wonders if God sometimes regrets having given us language, and yet, even that he must have called "good."

Remembering Strunk, his college professor, White says this:

In the days when I was sitting in his class, he omitted so many needless words, and omitted them so forcibly and with such eagerness and obvious relish, that he often seemed to be in the position of having shortchanged himself --- a man left with nothing more to say and yet with time to fill, a radio prophet who had out-distanced the clock.  Will Strunk got out of the predicament by a simple trick: he uttered every sentence three times.  When he delivered his oration on brevity to the class, he leaned over his desk, grasped his coat lapels in his hands, and, in a husky, conspiratorial voice, said,"Rule Seventeen. Omit needless words!  Omit needless words!  Omit needless words!"

At that, I can imagine him packing his briefcase and leaving the classroom, a visible demonstration of his three-word point.  Politicians, pundits, and pastors take heed! Omit needless words!  And as Strunk often said, "If you don't know how to pronounce a word, say it loud!"  Better to be wrong than irresolute or inaudible, he would say.

I recommend The Elements if Style, as well as The Essays of E.B. White (an immensely pleasurable read on various topics), or, failing that, Charlotte's Web or Stuart Little.  They are models of clarity, brevity, and style, and full of life and humor -- like hearing God talk.

 Not I Alone: A Poem tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451fedc69e20120a7d10e15970b 2010-01-13T23:55:25-05:00 2010-01-13T23:55:25-05:00 Not I Alone"A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all." (Annie Dillard, in The Writing Life) What is it that I alone love at all? Maybe the fact that here is here and there is there, even the vast difference between life inside and life outside, the separation by only a pane of glass. Perhaps the obscure corner, the very cornerness of corners, the vantage point they offer on life, the fact that they have our back. The shape of a word, its sound in my mouth, not only its height and width but it depth, its roundness, its shapeliness, the way its sound hangs in the air. Maybe the particular slant of sunlight through the window, the universe of dust revealed in its glare, the thought of what worlds I am breathing in. Perhaps the hope that memories of yesterday, redeemed and shorn of all that is hurtful, will live on in heightened color, sound, and smell in eternity. The sound of the library, the aroma of its bindings, the hope of new discoveries, the smile of 7-year old Betsy Pendergraph, the sound of God walking among the words, His words, His world. But then, maybe you love this too. Maybe it's not mine alone. Steve West

Not I Alone

"A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all."

(Annie Dillard, in The Writing Life)

What is it that I alone love at all?

Maybe the fact that here is here and
     there is there, even the vast difference between
     life inside and life outside, the separation by only a pane of glass.

Perhaps the obscure corner, the very cornerness of corners,
     the vantage point they offer on life, the
     fact that they have our back.

The shape of a word, its sound in my mouth, not
     only its height and width but it depth, its
     roundness, its shapeliness, the way its sound hangs in the air.

Maybe the particular slant of sunlight through the window,
     the universe of dust revealed in its glare, the 
     thought of what worlds I am breathing in.

Perhaps the hope that memories of yesterday,
     redeemed and shorn of all that is hurtful, will
     live on in heightened color, sound, and smell in eternity.

The sound of the library, the aroma of its bindings,
    the hope of new discoveries, the smile of 7-year old Betsy Pendergraph,
    the sound of God walking among the words, His words, His world.

But then, maybe you love this too.  Maybe it's not mine alone.

  

 At the Scholarship Interview tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451fedc69e20120a7cbce6f970b 2010-01-12T23:52:27-05:00 2010-01-13T10:41:46-05:00 How's it going buddy? Mind if I sit here? Man it's cold out there, like the friggin' North Pole. Ha, ha. I knew I shoulda stayed in Florida. Had a nice house in Naples, too. No air. Open to the breeze. Had big fans in every room. Man, you could smell the sea breeze even ten miles inland. No, I shoulda stayed in Florida. What's that? You like cold weather? Are you insane? Ha, ha. Just kidding man. Where you from anyway? INDIA? It's hot there, isn't it? They got mountains? Really? It gets cold? I thought Africa was hot everywhere, either desert or jungle. Asia? Yeah, that's what I meant. Sure. Asia. Africa, Asia. . . Hey, what's the difference anyway, right? Yeah, my kid, he's like Einstein on steroids. One uptight kid. A walking brain. I don't know where it comes from. I can't even understand him sometimes. I wouldn't know a calculus from my. . . well you know what I mean. But I can hear that money talking to me, you know what I mean. Ha, ha. They wanna give him money I'm all for it. Ha, ha. I'm hoping he becomes a millionaire, take care of me in my old age. What do you do anyway, for a living, I mean? You're what? A PASTOR? An Indian pastor? You got a church and all? Ah, no man. No, I'm not the religious type. I'm just trying to keep it in the road, you know. Keeping it together. Ha, ha. You know what I mean? Nobody'd confuse me and Billy Graham, that's for sure. Ha, ha. I figure there's something to it, you know. Hey --- don't get all touchy-feely, none of that stuff. Don't go gettin' weird and all. Ha, ha. Yeah, yeah, I see your point on that. He wants to be a missionary, huh? That's great. That's just great. No, I don't know what my son wants to do. I never asked him that. He don't talk to me much, really. Ah, teenagers, go figure. Ha, ha. Yeah, yeah, good idea, Maybe I will. Maybe I'll ask him. I'll say "look, kid, what's it gonna be, brain surgeon, rocket scientist, take your pick." I don't tell him what to do, you know. He'll figure it out. Jeez. Look at this place. That guy musta given them a boatload of gold to build this. Oh, hey. Here he comes. Looks beat up. Looks like a hound dog lost his bird. Ha, ha. Good talking with you man. Hey, you too. God bless you too. [I'm waiting for my son while he's in an interview for a scholarship. I imagined this unlikely conversation. Pure fiction.] Steve West

Huge.25.126565 How's it going buddy?  Mind if I sit here?

Man it's cold out there, like the friggin' North Pole.  Ha, ha.  I knew I shoulda stayed in Florida. Had a nice house in Naples, too.  No air.  Open to the breeze.  Had big fans in every room.  Man, you could smell the sea breeze even ten miles inland.

No, I shoulda stayed in Florida.

What's that?  You like cold weather?  Are you insane?  Ha, ha.  Just kidding man.  Where you from anyway?

INDIA?  It's hot there, isn't it?  They got mountains?  Really?  It gets cold?  I thought Africa was hot everywhere, either desert or jungle.  Asia?  Yeah, that's what I meant.   Sure.  Asia.  Africa, Asia. . . Hey, what's the difference anyway, right?  

Yeah, my kid, he's like Einstein on steroids.  One uptight kid.  A walking brain.  I don't know where it comes from.  I can't even understand him sometimes.  I wouldn't know a calculus from my. . . well you know what I mean.

But I can hear that money talking to me, you know what I mean.  Ha, ha.  They wanna give him money I'm all for it.  Ha, ha.  I'm hoping he becomes a millionaire, take care of me in my old age.

What do you do anyway, for a living, I mean?   You're what?  A PASTOR?  An Indian pastor?  You got a church and all?  

Ah, no man.  No, I'm not the religious type.  I'm just trying to keep it in the road, you know. Keeping it together. Ha, ha. You know what I mean?  Nobody'd confuse me and Billy Graham, that's for sure.  Ha, ha.  I figure there's something to it, you know.  Hey --- don't get all touchy-feely, none of that stuff.  Don't go gettin' weird and all.  Ha, ha.

Yeah, yeah, I see your point on that.  He wants to be a missionary, huh?  That's great.  That's just great. No, I don't know what my son wants to do.  I never asked him that.  He don't talk to me much, really. Ah, teenagers, go figure.  Ha, ha.  Yeah, yeah, good idea,  Maybe I will.  Maybe I'll ask him.  I'll say "look, kid, what's it gonna be, brain surgeon, rocket scientist, take your pick."  I don't tell him what to do, you know.  He'll figure it out.

Jeez.  Look at this place.  That guy musta given them a boatload of gold to build this.

Oh, hey.  Here he comes.  Looks beat up.  Looks like a hound dog lost his bird.  Ha, ha.  Good talking with you man.  Hey, you too.  God bless you too.

[I'm waiting for my son while he's in an interview for a scholarship.  I imagined this unlikely conversation.  Pure fiction.]

 Hold It Up To the Light tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451fedc69e20120a7c6dd9a970b 2010-01-11T23:59:00-05:00 2010-01-12T00:18:42-05:00 “To the child of God, there is no such thing as an accident. He travels an appointed way. Accidents may indeed appear to befall him and misfortune stalk his way, but these evils will be so in appearance only and will seem evils only because we cannot read the secret script of God’s hidden providence and so cannot discover the ends at which He aims…The man of true faith may live in the absolute assurance that his steps are ordered by the Lord. For him, misfortune is outside the bounds of possibility. He cannot be torn from this earth one hour ahead of the time which God has appointed, and he cannot be detained on earth one moment after God is done with him here.” (A.W. Tozer) Accidents? Wrong turns in life? Bad karma? I like to say that if you seek after God you can't go wrong, that even if you make a decision that appears to be wrong, then all paths lead back to the way you are on so that, in retrospect, it doesn't seem wrong at all but in fact all a part of right. Did you get that? Maybe you applied to one college, somehow got in and enrolled there, all because your high school girlfriend happened to already be there and you were worried she was seeing other guys and cheating on you out at the disco under the mirrorball every night while you languished in twelfth grade with Mrs. Gervase who taught Russian history by reading out of a book until she got frustrated with you and let you alone, and then when you get there (to college, that is), your girlfriend drops you for a med student who is just too nice to hate. You say, "Best thing that ever happened to me," right? Nope. And yet what seems so wrong turns so right when you meet the woman who would become your wife about the same time. Or maybe you got caught dumping that sorry weekly newspaper in the sewer drains, cheating your employer, because you got tired of walking your stubby 12-year old legs up and down the asphalt, getting yelled at by people who didn't want the paper and chased by dogs and threatened by Brad Bullah the neighborhood bully, and you just got sick and tired of all that and decided to dump the papers because nobody cared about them anyway and you were just sick and tired of it all (did I say that). And you got caught. You had to pay back all the money you made. You say, "That was great. Best thing that ever happened to me." Right? Nope. But who knows. It may have saved you from a life of crime, or at least from being a slack stockroom employee who lays around most of the time and plays video games. And maybe that oh so bad thing that happened and cost you your not too hard earned money (including your coin collection) and embarrassed you and got you grounded for weeks ends up leading to your reformation, to preventing you from leading a life of crime. You even become a lawyer, even an honest one. Go figure. It could happen, couldn't it? Now maybe you had a bunch of sisters and no brothers growing up and you wondered where was the justice in that what with them dressing you up like a girl before you knew any better and having you play with dolls before you got your man card, girls always yakking about boys and makeup and what other girls were wearing and all that, and scratching you with those extra long fingernails and saying they'd tell Daddy on you and then looking all moon-eyed and sweet when the belt came out. And you'd say "Great life. Piece of cake living with all these women." Right? Nope. But maybe you got in touch with your feminine side, or something (yech) or, more realistically, maybe you learned enough about women that you weren't such a horse's behind (pardon my french) when you grew up and started dating and by the time you got married were fully acculturated to the opposite gender, washing dishes and doing laundry and able to manage conversation with a gaggle of girls like the best. Well, that's good, that's good from bad, right? But then worse than all that is that maybe your Dad died when you were 13 and you wondered what you were supposed to do about that. You went out and lay on top of his car and watched the stars and your friend came over and said he was sorry and watched the stars too. And then you both got up and took a walk around the neighborhood together just like nothing ever happened and in a couple days even went back to school. You said "Best thing that ever happened to me. Tough, but I'm sure it's for my good." Nope, you didn't say that. And decades later you still don't say that. And yet sometimes, you catch just a glimmer of how even that was good, though you can't quite say "good," because being dead was just not in the plan, His plan, and yet here it is. And you can't quite say it was good, but you begin to see something underneath it all, like invisible ink, a secret code of good, if you hold it up to the light just right. You might just begin to read the good story hidden in that sorry tale. And one day you might just be able to say, "Look at what He did. Just look at that. Would you ever have thought. . ." Now can you believe that? Can you? Steve West

Sun “To the child of God, there is no such thing as an accident. He travels an appointed way. Accidents may indeed appear to befall him and misfortune stalk his way, but these evils will be so in appearance only and will seem evils only because we cannot read the secret script of God’s hidden providence and so cannot discover the ends at which He aims…The man of true faith may live in the absolute assurance that his steps are ordered by the Lord. For him, misfortune is outside the bounds of possibility. He cannot be torn from this earth one hour ahead of the time which God has appointed, and he cannot be detained on earth one moment after God is done with him here.”

(A.W. Tozer)

Accidents?  Wrong turns in life?  Bad karma?  I like to say that if you seek after God you can't go wrong, that even if you make a decision that appears to be wrong, then all paths lead back to the way you are on so that, in retrospect, it doesn't seem wrong at all but in fact all a part of right.  Did you get that?

Maybe you applied to one college, somehow got in and enrolled there, all because your high school girlfriend happened to already be there and you were worried she was seeing other guys and cheating on you out at the disco under the mirrorball every night while you languished in twelfth grade with Mrs. Gervase who taught Russian history by reading out of a book until she got frustrated with you and let you alone, and then when you get there (to college, that is), your girlfriend drops you for a med student who is just too nice to hate.  You say, "Best thing that ever happened to me," right?  Nope.  And yet what seems so wrong turns so right when you meet the woman who would become your wife about the same time.

Or maybe you got caught dumping that sorry weekly newspaper in the sewer drains, cheating your employer, because you got tired of walking your stubby 12-year old legs up and down the asphalt, getting yelled at by people who didn't want the paper and chased by dogs and threatened by Brad Bullah the neighborhood bully, and you just got sick and tired of all that and decided to dump the papers because nobody cared about them anyway and you were just sick and tired of it all (did I say that).  And you got caught.  You had to pay back all the money you made.  You say, "That was great. Best thing that ever happened to me." Right?  Nope.  But who knows.  It may have saved you from a life of crime, or at least from being a slack stockroom employee who lays around most of the time and plays video games.  And maybe that oh so bad thing that happened and cost you your not too hard earned money (including your coin collection) and embarrassed you and got you grounded for weeks ends up leading to your reformation, to preventing you from leading a life of crime.  You even become a lawyer, even an honest one. Go figure. It could happen, couldn't it?

Now maybe you had a bunch of sisters and no brothers growing up and you wondered where was the justice in that what with them dressing you up like a girl before you knew any better and having you play with dolls before you got your man card, girls always yakking about boys and makeup and what other girls were wearing and all that, and scratching you with those extra long fingernails and saying they'd tell Daddy on you and then looking all moon-eyed and sweet when the belt came out.  And you'd say "Great life.  Piece of cake living with all these women."  Right?  Nope.   But maybe you got in touch with your feminine side, or something (yech) or, more realistically, maybe you learned enough about women that you weren't such a horse's behind (pardon my french) when you grew up and started dating and by the time you got married were fully acculturated to the opposite gender, washing dishes and doing laundry and able to manage conversation with a gaggle of girls like the best.  Well, that's good, that's good from bad, right?

But then worse than all that is that maybe your Dad died when you were 13 and you wondered what you were supposed to do about that.  You went out and lay on top of his car and watched the stars and your friend came over and said he was sorry and watched the stars too.  And then you both got up and took a walk around the neighborhood together just like nothing ever happened and in a couple days even went back to school.  You said "Best thing that ever happened to me.  Tough, but I'm sure it's for my good." Nope, you didn't say that.  And decades later you still don't say that.  And yet sometimes, you catch just a glimmer of how even that was good, though you can't quite say "good," because being dead was just not in the plan, His plan, and yet here it is.  And you can't quite say it was good, but you begin to see something underneath it all, like invisible ink, a secret code of good, if you hold it up to the light just right.  You might just begin to read the good story hidden in that sorry tale.

And one day you might just be able to say, "Look at what He did.  Just look at that.  Would you ever have thought. . ."  Now can you believe that? Can you?  

 Changing Joseph's Life (Updated 1/30): Goal Met! tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451fedc69e2012876c23cfd970c 2010-01-10T16:09:06-05:00 2010-03-04T10:32:20-05:00 [Thanks to all of you who have responded to my request to help Joseph. his need for funds for schooling has been covered. A school has been secured, textbooks and materials purchased, and Joseph has started school. This will literally change Joseph's life and lift him up! I hope to update you later in the week with a report from Joseph on his first days in school. Thank you! If you'd like to know more about how to support kids like Joseph, check out the work of Embrace Uganda. (If you don't know about this, read my former post below.)]Last Summer, when I was in Uganda with my family, the Embrace Uganda team we were with moved into the orphanage at Agape Children's Village, located on a hilltop on the outskirts of Kampala, the capital. It was there I met Joseph, then 17, who slept in the bunk opposite mine. Learning of Joseph's interest in astronomy, one night my son and I took him out on the field above the orphanage to name constellations. I was impressed at his desire to learn and, later that evening, when he gave the devotion in our house, at his ability to give the truth of Scripture. There were many children at Agape, of course, and many in our house, so in the five days we were there our one-to-one time with each of them was limited. Providentially, however, on the fourth day we were there, I was sick (the usual stomach problems), and Joseph was sent home from school because he was tardy, and so we spent the afternoon in our bunks across from each other talking. He agreed to tell me his story. At four months of age he said his mother, who suffered from a mental disability, was crossing the road and was struck by a car and killed. She managed, however, to throw him under a bush on the side of the road where he lay overnight. When he was found the next day, a policeman took him to his father's house. As he was firstborn, his father wanted to sacrifice him to the ancestors (seriously!), so his grandmother fled with him to Kampala with only the clothes on her back. She couldn't care for him, so he lived with his brother, who shortly thereafter died, and then with his sister, where he was barely provided for. At nine, he was taken into a Compassion International project, coming to Agape at age 12. Recently Joseph had to leave Agape, as he turned 18 and, in Uganda, when you turn 18 you can no longer stay in a children's village. He is living with his sister again, in a small house with no electricity, with no funds to continue his education (which, in Uganda, is free only for primary school). In his last email to me, this is what Joseph said: "I am scared that I may not be able to achieve what I need in life, most especially access to high quality education, not only due to lack of encouragement and love from my relatives. I am feeling very sad and rejected for that. Thats why I am striving for an education, that I may forget all this. It has forced me experience feelings I would not at my age. Every time I am asking myself whether God will enable me to achieve my dream because every day down the road things worsen." There are a lot of children in Uganda that need an education, but this is one that God has put on my heart. I'd like to raise $1200, so that Joseph can be educated for an entire year in a boarding school, out of the difficult environment within which he now finds himself. I already have more than enough for 1/2 year, but I want o give him the whole year. If you are moved to give, you can do it through Paypal. See the box in the sidebar, or click on Give in the box below. Or if you need a tax deduction, give via the Embrace Uganda website. (You'll need to click the Donate button by Scholarship Fund, and then on the PayPal screen click the "Special Instructions for Seller" link and note that the contribution is for "Joseph Semanobe Scholarship." I'll be regularly updating the site with information about Joseph, so stay tuned. You can also create your own widget and insert it in your own blog. Help me get the word out! (Note that all excess funds, if any, will be given to Embrace Uganda to benefit other kids like Joseph.) Finally, to ensure accountability, I am sending the funds to an African pastor in Uganda, Michael Okwakol, who we have worked with in the past. He has located an appropriate school for Joseph and has ensured that the funds are properly applied. Furthermore, he will maintain contact with Joseph and monitor his progress. Thank you! Steve West

DSCN1123  [Thanks to all of you who have responded to my request to help Joseph.  his need for funds for schooling has been covered.  A school has been secured, textbooks and materials purchased, and Joseph has started school. This will literally change Joseph's life and lift him up! I hope to update you later in the week with a report from Joseph on his first days in school.  Thank you! If you'd like to know more about how to support kids like Joseph, check out the work of Embrace Uganda.  (If you don't know about this, read my former post below.)]

Last Summer, when I was in Uganda with my family, the Embrace Uganda team we were with moved into the orphanage at Agape Children's Village, located on a hilltop on the outskirts of Kampala, the capital.  It was there I met Joseph, then 17, who slept in the bunk opposite mine.  Learning of Joseph's interest in astronomy, one night my son and I took him out on the field above the orphanage to name constellations.  I was impressed at his desire to learn and, later that evening, when he gave the devotion in our house, at his ability to give the truth of Scripture.

There were many children at Agape, of course, and many in our house, so in the five days we were there our one-to-one time with each of them was limited.  Providentially, however, on the fourth day we were there, I was sick (the usual stomach problems), and Joseph was sent home from school because he was tardy, and so we spent the afternoon in our bunks across from each other talking.  He agreed to tell me his story.

At four months of age he said his mother, who suffered from a mental disability, was crossing the road and was struck by a car and killed.  She managed, however, to throw him under a bush on the side of the road where he lay overnight.  When he was found the next day, a policeman took him to his father's house.  As he was firstborn, his father wanted to sacrifice him to the ancestors (seriously!), so his grandmother fled with him to Kampala with only the clothes on her back.  She couldn't care for him, so he lived with his brother, who shortly thereafter died, and then with his sister, where he was barely provided for.  At nine, he was taken into a Compassion International project, coming to Agape at age 12.

Recently Joseph had to leave Agape, as he turned 18 and, in Uganda, when you turn 18 you can no longer stay in a children's village.  He is living with his sister again, in a small house with no electricity, with no funds to continue his education (which, in Uganda, is free only for primary school).  In his last email to me, this is what Joseph said: "I am scared that I may not be able to achieve what I need in life, most especially access to high quality education, not only due to lack of encouragement and love from my relatives. I am feeling very sad and rejected for that. Thats why I am striving for an education, that I may forget all this. It has forced me experience feelings I would not at my age. Every time I am asking myself whether God will enable me to achieve my dream because every day down the road things worsen."

There are a lot of children in Uganda that need an education, but this is one that God has put on my heart.  I'd like to raise $1200, so that Joseph can be educated for an entire year in a boarding school, out of the difficult environment within which he now finds himself.  I already have more than enough for 1/2 year, but I want o give him the whole year.  If you are moved to give, you can do it through Paypal. See the box in the sidebar, or click on Give in the box below.  Or if you need a tax deduction, give via the Embrace Uganda website.  (You'll need to click the Donate button by Scholarship Fund, and then on the PayPal screen click the "Special Instructions for Seller" link and note that the contribution is for "Joseph Semanobe Scholarship." I'll be regularly updating the site with information about Joseph, so stay tuned. You can also create your own widget  and insert it in your own blog.  Help me get the word out! (Note that all excess funds, if any, will be given to Embrace Uganda to benefit other kids like Joseph.)

Finally, to ensure accountability, I am sending the funds to an African pastor in Uganda, Michael Okwakol, who we have worked with in the past.  He has located an appropriate school for Joseph and has ensured that the funds are properly applied.  Furthermore, he will maintain contact with Joseph and monitor his progress.

Thank you!