Healing Flood

Rain, wash it away.

As I sit here in my easy chair I know there are many hurting. There are many starving. There are many being held by addictions or suffering through the ravages of war. Yet, I must be thankful.

Rain, wash it away.

Should I feel guilty for being thankful? Should I feel guilty for the ability to breathe and feel my pulse as blood forces its way through my heart? I am thankful for another day, for another storm.

Rain, wash it away.

My guilt for past failures sticks to me like mud. My struggles and pain and regrets cling to me like the smell from a ravaging fire. And yet, I have come out on the other side covered in ash and soot but very much alive.

Rain, wash it away.

With each holiday or remembrance, the pundits and prophets and machines of political correction remind us of why we should not celebrate and how we have failed. Yet we must meet in fellowship to honor the things we hold sacred. Our failures are many, but our sense of community is vital as a species and as a race of imperfect people.

Rain, wash it away.

As I sit and listen to the falling rain wash away all traces of holiday revelry, I remember the thirsty land that welcomes this falling nectar and I am happy for the Earth as it receives its nourishment. Just as the Earth is fed by the rains, so must I receive the sustaining power of love as it carries away my fear.

Rain, wash it away.

Though reasons are apparent all around us for why we should be angry or worried or hopeless, we must never let them take hold. We must let this healing flood slowly and steadily cleanse us as we await the sustaining sunshine of hope.

The Brilliant Flame: A Tale of Life and Death

Do we really have a choice?

Are we able to overcome the genetics that rule us; unseen codes that lead us onward into that future of our misguided dreams?

No matter how hard we try, our destiny is sealed; the future is the same for all of us on this orb.

Should we even try?

Making the destinies that we desire is an illusion, a somber trip that lulls us into believing we are more than a speck of dust in this multitude of mountains and valleys.

Is it real or is it a reality of our choosing?

The older I get the more I believe that every human is the same-- a number of heartbeats, doing the job that feeds us and pays our bills; nourishing ourselves; giving and receiving love and praying to our deity of choice.

But is there more?

Can this life have more meaning than that, and if it doesn’t, can that still be OK?

This reality is the only one we have; the only future we make is the one we build piece by piece and day by day; but do not be fooled into thinking all of our choices are our own.

The blood and bones and DNA that pulses through us all guides us forward like a seeing eye dog into a reality that is blind to our choosing; some choices are only revealed through a pattern of calculated mysteries.

We know our destiny, yet we travel on; optimistic but knowing the future is a dark place with only hope to take us by the hand and lead us to that place of rest.

Try and escape your genetics if you must, but know it is an invisible force that betrays your sense of the real and the righteous; it controls us more than we know.

The future is a bright and burning sun that flames and then is no more.

Maybe we are that bright sun, but let us bring forth a beautiful display of brilliance as we wave goodbye.

Grieving is as Breathing

Let the tears flow, my love.

Grieving is as breathing.

Grieve for all that was and all that was lost.

Grieve for missing a life that you knew was yours.  You held it, but it slipped away like a handful of sand.

Grieve for those who love but do not know how to express it, but instead hide in the shadows and scream in silence over the life they have chosen.

They see their past as but a memory; fleeting yet within your grasp.

Grieve for those who have passed on to a new journey.

Know that your journey will someday end as well, but work remains;

Do not let grief set your feet in stone.

Grieve for those who have lost more than they can bear.  Hold them up and bear the burden for them; walk in their shoes and wipe away their tears.

Breathing is the only thing we must do to help the grief subside;

Time continues on and eases the pain with each new turn of the Earth.

The tears of grieving will fill the oceans, but the sun will always shine again to dry them up; allow it to do its much needed work.

The tears will flow, my love.

But flow they must.

Once Upon a Time at Walmart…

“When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” Matthew 9:36 NIV

It was a lazy afternoon as I came back from the university. I skipped my afternoon coffee so I was in want of a nap. Traffic frantically flowed and the city moved at its usual speed. Stopping for groceries, as was my custom on many days, I rolled the wobbly cart down familiar aisles. Milk. Butter. Fruit. Bread. The usual suspects.  I could almost copy the grocery list and just repeat it each week.

I was not sad, just introspective; observant of my surroundings and listening to conversations as people moved around the store like rats, tracing a maze that always led to the checkout prize.

Mankind looks at those around them and immediately starts putting people in categories. Lowlifes. Thugs. Slow old ladies. Loud teenagers. Screaming children. We sort them by color, lifestyle, and whatever else we can see (or want to see) at the moment. We all do it. No matter how much we wish we didn’t, the categorization and judgment is ever-present in our minds. Our prejudices and biases rear their ugly heads when we least expect them.  It is a struggle to erase those images and stereotypes from our minds. Sometimes I feel like a tamer with a whip and a chair who is constantly trying to keep the roaring lions at bay.

This lazy afternoon was different. As I approached the counter, everything seemed in slow motion. A tall Black teenager walked by wrapped around his girlfriend as he laughed. A White older man with a thick beard grumbled and waited his turn in line. An Asian lady checked the price of corn and asked for a translation from the friend at her side. Laughing children begging for candy. Frustrated mothers wanting to get home and relax. Checkout line workers with sore feet trying to keep a friendly demeanor as they longed to sit down.

I felt strangely calm with the whole scene and strangely un-judgmental. I pictured Jesus looking over the crowd of followers or across the party of the rejected sinners and having compassion on them all. Not judging them, but loving them.  Pure, immeasurable love. For a moment I felt the same emptiness of forethought, the same purity of love that the Bible talks about. For a moment I felt like this “love they neighbor” thing was at once a possibility.

 

I did not approach them. I did not hug them or bless them or even change anything about the grocery trip from any other trip. I simply smiled. I caught a glimpse of Jesus that day. Not the stern Jesus portrayed by some. Not the Jesus who looks just like them and surely “high-fives” them for every righteous cause they attack in His name. Not the Jesus that condemns “those sinners,” cures their every ailment, or brings them luck on their next stock market transaction.

Simply the Jesus of love. The Jesus that I worship. The Jesus that looks at me, with all my imperfections and stupidity and selfishness, and smiles.

It seems an impossible task to love everyone and I know many think it is too hard to try. But it is possible, even for a few fleeting moments as you trace a familiar path through the grocery store.  

Take a deep breath and lead with love and compassion. It is the only way we will ever change ourselves or this world.

Parable of the Mountain

It was not Everest, though at first glance it seemed an impossible feat.

He stared it down, contemplating the trajectory of the descent.

A trail was there, but being alone, he did not chance the injury.

Yet the elusive mountaintop called him still.

At first he was resigned to waiting:

“I will try it again this summer.”

“I went further than I did last time.”

“I do not have to do this--what am I trying to prove?”

Walking down to the base, he ventured left and right of the main trail,

hoping for an alternate route.

None presented itself; the paths abruptly ending in overgrown vegetation.

“Maybe it is the only way up,” he thought.

Finally, he decided to explore the main trail again,

looking for secret passages that were blazed by others more adventurous.

To the right, a small path surrounded by overgrown grass rose up; barely used but exposing a feeble trail in the distance.

Slowly curling around in the direction of the original path, this less-steep alternative showed promise.

To his amazement, it grudgingly connected to the original trail at the top.

Steep but passible, he traversed the crooked mountain passage to victory.

Looking down, he knew the original treacherous path could have had disastrous consequences,

but his persistence had paid off.

No one saw this achievement; his sense of accomplishment was silent yet profound.

Though alone, he had followed the way of those who were brave enough to not give up.

Whatever your mountain may be, do not deem it impossible, even though a thousand

glances have presented you with the same impossible conclusion.

There is a better way.

Follow the path of those who succeeded where many have stared and pondered their failure.

Rise on their shoulders and on their backs.

Find a way.