The way I feel some days lately…

: God Takes Suggestions (So Offer One)

jlgerhardt:

There’s this great story in I Samuel sandwiched between the high profile adventures of the conquering, charming, soon-to-be-king David. It’s about Jonathan, Saul’s son, David’s best friend, a faithful follower of Jehovah and mighty warrior of Israel. He’s with his father’s army waiting for a…

“Faith is the art of holding onto things in spite of your changing moods and circumstances.”

— C. S. Lewis (via amrush92)

“There is someone that I love even though I don’t approve of what he does. There is someone I accept though some of his thoughts and actions revolt me. There is someone I forgive though he hurts the people I love the most. That person is……me.”

— C.S. Lewis (via sun—washed)

(Source: oldmanflower, via amrush92)

“‘Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel’ (which means, God with us).”

“And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

“Do not be afraid, but go on speaking and do not be silent, for I am with you, and no one will attack you to harm you…”

You know? His name is still Immanuel; he is still with us. Always.

(Matthew 1:23, Matthew 28: 20, and Acts 18:9-10)

The rushing water beneath my feet. Crystal clear, clean and bright. I remember playing by that stream every summer, building bridges across it, playing on its islands, making booby traps. It’s beautiful, and it’s mine; none of the campers are allowed. Once I remember swimming in it. Oh, it’s so cold, that mountain water! And then, many years later as a camper myself, I put on Christ in that water. It was evening, so it was not only cold water but cold air. Oh, the fresh newness!

I remember the stump by the water’s edge. Termites or something had eaten it pretty deeply; the top looked like sawdust. I’d use that stump as we played, a table, a seat, a setting for my rock people and yarn dolls to adventure in. I remember the waterfall, the rocks along the bank that we’d climb on and just sit, the warm sunshine and the whispering stream.

I remember my Daddy’s stories about when he was there. He was first and camper, then a councilor, and once he hid up in a tree, wearing camo and everything. His campers never did see him up there, perched in that tall ponderosa pine along the tecolote creek.

I remember the fresh smell of pine, the warmth of the sun, the sound of the wind in the trees on the opposite hillside. Even now when I catch a whiff of pine needles, I am whisked away in my mind to that place, that sanctuary in the mountains.

I remember once, me and my fellow campers were sleeping outside. I woke up in the middle of the night, confused by all the light. The stars and the moon were so bright, I thought for a few seconds that it was daylight. 

I remember walking back along the worship trail after a devo in the woods, the air pulsing with passion, beauty, love, worship. The way I felt after Blue Haven players. The way it rained on all day hike, rain through the sunshine.

I remember.

A podcast I did for Creative Writing. This is me reading “A Psalm of Life” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Winter echos of first leaf flights,

Of days when the earth first began to die

First blazing fire, then ashen death

Now the stiff corpses go blowing by.

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Before, the colors were vibrant with life,

Living green, then burning red-

Now all colors are combined into white;

Snow that is as pale as the dead.

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Even then were there echos of death

A whisper of chill in the air;

“The earth is dying, dying, dying”

Sighs the wind, full of care.

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So now the year is dying fast

Its end is coming near

But soon shall come the spring again,

And life so green, so dear.

Hairdryer

A dragon!

His twisted tail is long and black,

His gaping maw is blasting heat.

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Grasp him by the neck,

And he will roar in your face,

Your hair blasted back by his hot fury.

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Quick sir knight! How to defeat it?

Why, dear damsel in distress, that is rather easy.

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Unplug it.

A Sense of Flying

People, streets, sensory overload; stop to breathe

A sandwich on the steps of the Met gives a sense of flying

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The instinctive violence of youth, protecting what is yours

The sense of flying in the whistle of the whip

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Behold! The creative powers of man displayed!

Clockwork, the sense of flying machinery

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Edible sailboat tossing on a ceramic sea

Slithers off, a sense of flying, sailing through the air

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Authentic rusticness, where classy and downhome meet

Time goes on without us, a sense of flying numbers

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A leap in the air, a sense of flying

Snout and mouth laughing, flinging spit

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Swirls, bursts of color and light give

A sense of flying through scratchy, silky threads

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A house with no walls, an unmade house

Time present and forevermore, a sense of flying

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Parking for your jug, your basket

And your book too. A sense of flying sanity…

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Quiet, quiet. There’s one! BOOM!

The sense of flying, down it falls

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Cozy water, wearing fuzzy sweaters

Stops and stills this sense of flying

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The real, the natural, the uncontrived,

A sense of flying stopped, silent serenity

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What’s real to you, man? To you, Nione?

Your mint plant gives you no sense of flying.