Stars

Up until now I have contented myself to posting the non-fiction ramblings of my brain. They were interesting but also manageable. They were safe. Today I'm going to take a risk and post a short story called "Stars". It's a bit longer (but not so long as to curtail your plans for the evening). Be gentle.

The cracks are the hardest part. All the little bits of stuff get stuck in-between and then you have to go at it with jabbing motions to get them out. You can’t just sweep right over it even though that would be quicker. Sometimes-Nice Ron always wants things to be done quicker. He wants the trash taken out whenever it gets full but I like to do it at 12, 2, 4, and at 6 before I go home. I like sweeping because I can see what I’ve done. I can see the clean parts and where it’s still dirty. Sometimes it’s hard during the fall because the leaves blow all over the place. I like fall even though I have to wear my jacket with the hole on the left arm where the stuffing comes out a little. I like the way the cold air makes the tip of my nose cold. I like the way it smells—like leaves. It’s funny how leaves have a smell but you can’t really say what it smells like. They just smell like leaves.

There are lots of waves on the lake today. It’s Lake Michigan (M-I-C-H-I-G-A-N). I like to watch the boats out in the bay bob up and down, like when you go fishing. The wind causes that. It makes it seem like every wave has a little whipped cream on top. When I was little my dad used to spray the whipped cream in my mouth right out of the can until I couldn’t keep it in my mouth anymore. I would laugh and have to spit it out on the floor. Dad would smile. Sometimes I don’t like to think about my dad.

Sometimes-Nice Ron tells me to come back inside the restaurant because it looks like it’s going to rain. He is one of those funny people who isn’t young but isn’t old either. He could be younger than me or he might be a thousand years old. Sometimes I like to pretend that he is a thousand years old and he is a vampire or something. Vampires can live for a long time without looking old. I saw that in a movie once. There were werewolves too. Sometimes-Nice Ron isn’t a werewolf though. I saw him when there was a full moon. He drove me home because it was raining and the buses had stopped. It doesn’t look like rain. It just looks like grey.

I come back inside and hang up my coat in the break room. Susan has to remind me to wash my hands. “Every employee must wash their hands when returning to work.” Sometimes I forget.

I remember that I brought lasagna for lunch today. I’m happy because lasagna is on my top ten list of favorite meals. Only two and a half more hours until lunch. I like to read books on my break. Sometimes I don’t get all the words but I just skip over those parts. I don’t think I’m missing much. I read a story once about King Arthur and his knights. I liked the parts about the good knights fighting and going on quests. Quests are like jobs but people think you’re awesome for doing them. Sometimes I pretend that I am on a quest. ‘Sir Taylor rides out on his noble steed.’ But the story doesn’t end happy like it should. Arthur is a good king and he shouldn’t have died. Sometimes I don’t like the end of stories. Sometimes real life is like that too.

Sometimes-Nice Ron hands me a red bucket and asks me to wipe down the tables in the lobby. The water isn’t very warm. It’s supposed to be warm. I don’t say anything because sometimes when I point out things like that het gets angry and has to walk away. I like my job. I want to keep my job, so I don’t say anything to him about the water. There aren’t many people eating today. It’s only ten in the morning and we just switched over to lunch. Sometimes they let us have the leftover breakfast sandwiches that haven’t sold. Otherwise they just throw them out. That doesn’t seem right. There is a man and a woman sitting by a window. They’re still eating breakfast (even though its lunchtime). The man is drinking his coffee and looks kind of like my grandpa. The water in my bucket is dirty. There’s little pieces of egg floating around but I don’t want to say anything. The grandpa and the woman get up to leave. When they throw out their stuff I move over and wipe off their table.

There are three men eating near the entrance to the play area. I know I should remember one of them. It’s right on the tip of my brain. It feels like when you’re just about to sneeze but it won’t come out. Sometimes I want to go climb the structure (okay, all of the time) but I know I’m too big. Not too old though. Some of my friends at church play a game called ‘groundies.’ You play tag on a play structure with your eyes closed. It’s really fun but sometimes people don’t want me to play though.

The three men are laughing. I pretend to know what they are laughing about. I smile too. They see me and smile back but not the way my friends at church smile. Maybe they don’t go to church. Every Sunday somebody takes me out to lunch. It’s great because we go to places I don’t normally eat at. One time we went to a place with a big fish tank and I got to look at all the fish swimming and the starfish (which don’t look really alive) and the snake-y fish with its mouth open. I didn’t tell my friends but I was pretending in my head what it would be like to live underwater. I wouldn’t be a fish though. I would just be me except I could breathe. I would get to go down into the nooks and crannies where the fish go. I’d make a little house there. I didn’t want to leave when the man said that our table was ready. I went back to look when I went to bathroom. The starfish was in a different place (but I didn’t see it move).

The three men get up to throw out their trash. I go over to wipe off the table. They weren’t very neat. There are bits of fries and salt and pepper on the table. I sweep it all into my bucket and start to clean. At first I don’t hear anything because I’m trying to make sure I clean the whole table but then I see the familiar man coming over and saying something. I know that I should remember him but I can’t. Does he ride the bus with me? Does he work at Fun 4 All toys? I can’t remember and it makes me angry. He’s talking to me. “Hey retard, we’re not done.” I don’t’ know what he’s talking about so I keep wiping the table. “Idiot, we’re still eating.” He points to the table. Then I remember where I know him from. He is Steve … Steve what? Steve Grunaldi from Grand Haven High School. He was a year behind me in school. His face got fat. In school he had a locker on the east wing by where my friend Mike had his locker sophomore year. It was by Mrs. Rosenberg’s classroom. She had pizza parties on Fridays.

I see Sometimes-Nice Ron coming out from behind the counter. He’s saying something to Steve. Now I realize what I did wrong. They were coming back to their table and I wiped it down too fast. Steve and his friends are yelling at Ron. Everybody in the restaurant is staring. I’m mad at myself because Sometimes-Nice Ron has told me before that I need to wait until the customers have really gone before I clean the table. I know that. I know that.

Susan is yelling at the man from behind the register. She looks like she’s going to come out and talk to the men. Susan gets angry sometimes. One time I saw her fighting with her boyfriend in his car on her break. I was supposed to be sweeping but I stopped to watch. Her boyfriend looked at me. He had mean eyes. I didn’t like him. He threw a cigarette on the ground. I hate that even when it looks cool on the freeway when it sparks red. Ron is telling her to stay where she is. I don’t know if the men are staying anymore. I don’t know what to do.

One time when my dad and Miss Jessica were yelling at each other, dad threw a glass against the wall. It broke and I got scared and I ran and ran until the houses were gone and the fields started. I ran and saw the corn was really tall. Running past the corn made me feel like I was running super-fast. I ran for a thousand miles with the corn. I ran until my lungs felt like fire. I sat down and my world was gone. I was nowhere. The sun got all red and started to go down. It started to get dark and the shadows were everywhere and I got scared even though I know there aren’t such things as ghosts or anything. But it looked ghost-y. I was sitting down in the dirt of the road and no cars had come by. Maybe nobody would ever come by. I prayed and started to cry. I didn’t know what to do then either. I wished dad had never thrown that glass and I wished I hadn’t run and I wished mom had never left. Mom had soft brown hair. I saw headlights coming and I stopped crying because I didn’t want them to see me crying. The car stopped by me but I didn’t get up because they were Strangers but it was Miss Jessica and she drove me home. When we got home dad wasn’t there.

Steve is very angry. Ron is telling him to leave. Steve is swearing. He starts to walk away but he has to pass where I am standing. He walks real close to me and says “move it retard.” I try to get out of his way but I kind of trip on my own feet (like the time with the milk). I don’t fall but I have to let go of the bucket and catch myself and it sloshes on my pants and falls to the floor. There is water everywhere. A Big Mess. My pants are wet. I look like I peed myself. Steve and his friends laugh and leave and give Susan the bad finger which makes her even madder and she swears. Ron tells me not to worry about the bucket (even though I want to clean it up) and ways that I can go home which is nice cause it’s not even really lunchtime yet and that’s when it gets busy. I ask him if I can take the trash out anyway. He says okay. I always take the trash out before I go home. At home, Tuesdays are trash day. I do the recycling too.

I put on my jacket and remember to bring my lasagna home. It’s still lasagna day even if I’m not at work. There aren’t many bags of trash but I throw them in the cart anyway and wheel it out to the trash corral. Cows live in corrals. The trash smells so I hold my breath. The sky is still grey but there is no rain. On the lake the ships shimmer like shiny, friendly stars. I feel like I’m floating there, holding my breath like a balloon or a bobber on the water. Floating, floating, floating, never sinking until I can’t take it anymore and breathe like it’s the first breath I’ve ever taken.

Oceans, Sacred and Wild

All sound is drowned out by the constant crash of the surf against the rocky shore. Looking out upon the waters one sees a vast canvas of the sea, set about with whitecaps. It is perpetual motion; an undulating expanse as wave after wave driven by wind and tide press ever onward. An island, lush with trees lit with the fires of autumn sits like a sentinel on the horizon, nameless, uninhabited, a touchstone against the backdrop of the ever-shifting waters. As I watch, the sun, unseen on the land, paints the water with an even more vibrant shade of aquamarine. There is a chill in the air but the rays upon the water gives the impression of a hot, shimmering summer’s day. This is Lake Huron.

I will admit that from my land-locked home, I often forget the grandeur and vastness of the four great seas that surround me (other states lay claim to Ontario). I see them rarely, most often catching a passing glance at southern Erie as we drive through downtown Cleveland. How little I regard these majestic giants. Looking out upon the face of any of the Great Lakes one would be hard-pressed to differentiate them from an ocean save the lack of the briny tang in the air. One can only imagine the thoughts of those courageous explorers as they stood on their yet undiscovered shores, or set sail on their unplumbed depths. I’m sure that many, upon hearing the great clash of waters from a distance, became convinced that they had reached the farthest extreme of this new world.

We struggle to appreciate our mighty neighbors these days. How can they compare to the length and breadth of the seven seas upon which the world’s commerce is borne and under which the lightless depths hold incalculable mysteries? We know so much these days (too much perhaps). We can see on a map or from a satellite the farthest extremes of the world. We can compare the lakes surrounding us with the great seas of Northern Europe or the gulfs of the southern hemisphere. We learn the mileage and volume and surface area. But do we comprehend? With our vast stores of information can we come to a place of understanding the size and scope? We lose sight of the enormity of life inhabiting a single cove in the grand scheme of an entire sea. This affects all areas of our lives but is particularly insulting to our unique borders that bear the stigma of familiarity.

Let us look again, with eyes anew, on our lakes and try to see them not as geographical objects but as vast communities of life; of beauty; crafted by Divine hand to reflect unseen glory.

Michigan: the Hollywood starlet, boasting a metropolis and the golden coast of the elite, whose northern extremes boast nationally recognized wonders. The crystal blue waters and sandy beaches lure millions to its shores every year. Michigan you may be our vacation home but we know you so little. What do we know of the plovers who nest on your shores? Have we witnessed the petulant winds sculpting your dunes? Forgive us if we have taken you as a trinket without truly seeking to grasp your grandeur; without seeking your soul.

Erie: maligned and forgotten. You became to us a commodity to be traded and in so doing we tarnished your gown. We no longer looked at you as a thing of beauty but as a means of transport, a battleground for our wars. You bore the ore that fed our pride. You bore the very means by which we forgot you. Let us see you again as you were; as you can be again, without our reckless stain upon you.

Huron: I confess ignorance of you. You existed in my mind as an emerald enigma and I sought you not. Teach me, if you would, even as I sit upon your rocky shores. Show me how to appreciate your power.

Oh mystery deep and foreboding are you Superior, most ruthless of your siblings. You are to us a foreign world, misty and cold. Your bones run deep and your ancient shores speak of secrets long withheld. We sought to tame you yet you would not be broken. It was we who broke upon your shores and sank beneath your waves. Bitter and alien you seem to us. Let us ponder but a little further if you will allow, that we might see the deep things of the world as you do, fully grasping the profound solemnity.

Ontario you seem to me a far-flung cousin rather than a sibling. Your shores belong to another land; another time. Speak, if you will. We will listen. We will hear your story.

As the sun sets upon the sunrise coast and I shiver in my sleep, let us together pledge to gaze with renewed vigor and openness upon our long forgotten inland seas.

The Worst Singer in the World

This morning during worship service at my church I sat in front of the absolute worst singer I’ve ever heard. Hardly a single note was on key. I’m not a particularly musical person myself but I feel like I can hold my own with my voice, such as it is, but this woman was rough. I had to fight back the urge to turn around and look her in the eyes. To be honest I didn’t want to match a face to the voice. I was already being pretty critical and I didn’t want to judge her every time I saw her. At one point I wasn’t even aware of the band or of the congregation singing. All that surrounded me was a sea of cringe-inducing vocal exercises. This woman was ruining my experience and disrupting my world

Lately I’ve been really troubled with the notion that Christians are brothers and sisters. See, I’m an only child without any cousins so I grew up in a very small circle of family. When I became a Christian and started getting acquainted with the rituals, routines, and eccentricities of church life I came to view gatherings as services. In an array of leadership capacities I learned to plan events and schedule the elements of worship: songs, prayers, sermons. Ingrained in me has been the desire to iron out the wrinkles and deficiencies. The wandering warbler sitting behind me was definitely a wrinkle.

It’s so easy to fall into an attitude of performance that takes us away from the truth of the matter: namely that believers in Christ are brothers and sisters in Christ. We are family. My lack of close family; of siblings, has always tripped me up in this regard. But the Bible repeatedly calls us to view each other in such terms. It is enmeshed in the language of the epistles. We have been adopted by the Lord into a family of aliens and strangers. We have been brought from a life of sin into a new life in Christ. Our old lives are dead and we live new lives in a new reality; a new family. We are not simply people who happen to be in the same place at the same time. How would we respond differently to our worship services if we could view them as family gatherings? How would we respond to our differences if we didn’t view our relationships as disposable but rather built upon the bonds of family? I have an inkling that we would be a little quicker to give each other grace; that we would be a bit more willing to gloss over arguments and controversies; that if we knew we had to live together at the end of the day we might be more inclined to talk to each other and really care about what our friends are saying--- because those are the things that you do for family--- or should. When the person in need is a brother or a sister or cousin, you go a little farther; you dig a little deeper; you sacrifice more to their benefit. If those are the things that are true of biological families how much more should that be true for those of us who follow Christ; who have chosen by our own wills to enter into a new family?

If I can see the person in the pew next to me as my brother; as one chosen and redeemed by Christ, then maybe I can bring myself to actually talk to him and actually care about what’s going on in his life instead of simply shaking his hand during ‘fellowship’ time. If I can see my pastor as a brother entrusted by God with particular skills and a particular calling, then maybe I won’t view him with cynicism and mistrust. If the teens in the back row aren’t just loud, annoying, and frustrating strangers but instead my sons and daughters, nieces and nephews then perhaps I can find it in myself to be a model for them, to give them the grace that Jesus gives them. If only I saw our worship services as family reunions rather than sterile exercise then maybe I’d feel less alone; maybe I’d be more willing to open myself up; maybe I could feel peace among friends. If only…

The song is ending. There is an acapella chorus. I am overwhelmed by the droning voice behind me. I turn to look my sister in the eye so I’ll never view her as a stranger again. If only I can see her as family then maybe I can sit through another song.

What Will You Remember of Me?

This evening I indulged in a pleasure that I wish were more a part of my regular existence: I finished my evening sitting in front of a crackling fire in my fireplace. With my feet warming on a stool, my eyes pass over the bookshelves lining the walls. My attention is drawn to a simple wood carving of a bald eagle. Having just seen this very animal earlier in the day I am aware of the many ways in which the carving differs from the real thing. The eye is too perfectly round. The beak too curved. One of its talons is twisted unnaturally. Its feet rest upon a of piece driftwood which has been broken and hastily reassembled.

Yet the eagle sits upon my shelf overlooking the expanse of my living room not for its perfection but for its creator. The figure was carved by my grandfather, now departed. It is for that reason that this figure is more than a sum of its parts. It remains a physical memory of his life and effort. As I ponder these things I am reminded of how few tokens of his life I possess. In fact, my memories of his life are far fewer that I would like. I can already feel my own memories of him slipping into the fog of history. What do I truly have that encapsulates this man’s life? What will be remembered of him?

My thoughts, as if bidden by an unseen oarsman are swiftly swept onto my own existence. What will be remembered of me? It is the question that plagues Man with a doggedness only equaled by the certainty of his own mortality. Our days are like a vapor. Our flesh is like grass. Here today and gone tomorrow. What will become of us? What will become of me?

Even in the limited sphere of my life I ponder what of me will remain. My daughter, now nearly two, what would she remember of me if I were to vanish from this earth? Would I be a mere carving on the mantelpiece to her? Would she remember the way I yelled at her when she poured a drink on the floor? Would she remember the times I was too occupied by some pointless news story to sit down and play with her? Would she remember my worries and anxieties; the way the weaknesses and sins of my past haunted me? What of my doubts and fear? My grumbling and complaining? What memories am I making for her? What kind of legacy am I leaving?

Paul sets a mighty example for us when he writes to “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say rejoice! Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near. Be anxious for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Will this be my legacy? Will I be known by my trust in the Lord or by my doubting? How am I building my legacy? On the presupposition of my own efforts? Or am I building it upon the character of the Lord? My own efforts will fail. I should know that by now. My own projects, as successful as they might seem, are but a passing wind, lost very quickly to the swiftness of time. What will remain? The Lord only. My only legacy is in Him and in my trust in Him. Will my daughter see that in me? Will she in my life the majesty of my Creator? Could she discern from the memory of me the character of God? As I rest my eyes this night, the question resonates: what will she remember of me?

True Acceptance

This post is a bit of a departure as it is a talk I gave recently for a student ministry overnighter.

Do you remember your first day of school?

I’m not sure how much I remember, but this is what I’ve been told about my first day of first grade. I was going into a new school building. My mom came to drop me off at Mrs. Fellman’s class. She took me inside, got me situated, my little desk, those little chairs, and as must happen eventually, she turned to leave. As many kids do, I started bawling. I grabbed my mom’s leg and wouldn’t let go. Nothing that my mom or the teacher could do would comfort me. Other kids are playing with toys and running around. I am causing a scene. I was inconsolable. Then the door opens and in walks Robbie Swanson. Robbie had been my best friend since we were three. I saw Robbie and stopped crying and happily went off to say hello. I found someone who knew me.

Or perhaps you remember your first day of Jr. High or High School.

I remember going into each of my new classes and scanning the room to see if there was anybody I had gone to elementary school with.

What is it that makes us do those things?

What makes us look for people that we know; who know us?

I would argue that we are hardwired to have friends. We’re hardwired to seek out people that we feel comfortable around. We need each other. We want to be accepted by people. We want our friends to turn to us and say that we’re worthwhile; that our lives mean something.

Think about it, little kids are all about feeling accepted. If they make a piece of art out of macaroni noodles or something they’ll come running to mom or dad or grandma or grandpa and they’ll be waving their masterpiece. My daughter is almost two and she stays with my mom while I’m at work and she does this all the time. I’ll come home from work and my mom will say ‘show daddy your picture’. And she’ll run over and wave it in front of me and start shouting something like: “it it hop see it hop”. I look at it and it’s just a smear of red paint and I’m like “its good honey”. And my mom will say “she painted a bunny”. “bunny, bunny, hop” Gotcha.

That’s how we are as little kids. We want someone to tell us that what we did was good. That’s why it’s so dangerous when people twist and manipulate that desire to be accepted in children. Or for too many of us, sometimes our parents don’t give us that kind of acceptance. Adults can do incredible damage by insisting that their children have to succeed to ‘earn’ their love and acceptance.

Some people even go so far as to say that unless we feel accepted, we can’t love other people or achieve our potential.

I want to look at some common examples of how we show that we all seek acceptance in our daily lives.

We’re not kids. I mean I’m certainly not a kid.

We can see this desire to be accepted in our own lives too though can’t we?

Have you ever had one of your friends get into a relationship that is just toxic? First they isolate themselves and spend time only with their boyfriend or girlfriend. Then everything becomes about the other person. What would so-and-so think about this? I can’t go, so-and-so might not be able come. We stand there helplessly and look at their lives and see them making bad choices and we can’t say anything about it?

Why does this happen?

It happens when they get so wrapped up in being accepted by that one person that the rest of their life gets all out of whack. They stop seeing the warning signs and only see the need to be accepted by that person.

I’ll be honest, when I was in Jr. High and Sr. High, I was all about having a girlfriend. I mean it drove me. I had a really messed up viewpoint where I viewed every girl as a “potential” girlfriend. I’d get stuck on one particular girl and spend all my time obsessing about her. I perfected my lame way of flirting: the “I look at you and then look away just as you look at me.” It was really lame but I had the timing down to a science. The thing was, I really never even got a girlfriend until I graduated high school, but I spent so much of my time and thought into finding one girl who would look at me and go “I like you. I want to spend my time with you.”

Lets look at another example of ways we show that we’re longing for acceptance.

I graduated high school in the year 2000. A lot has changed since then. There’s this thing called [squint and look for the word] “the internet”. I think it’s on the computer.

Probably my favorite thing that’s changed since I was in high school is that being a nerd is cool. It’s cool to read comic books and like superheroes.

When I was in high school this wasn’t the case. There was a comic book store a few blocks from my school and on Saturdays I remember having my mom drive me down there. I always felt like I was on some undercover sting operation. We’d park out front and then I’d walk up the store and pretend like I was just walking down the street and look up at the sign like “oh hey, this is the first time I’ve ever seen this type of store, let me go in and see what it is that they sell”.

I was so embarrassed to be seen reading comics and playing card games. I never talked to anyone but my closest friend or my parents about them. I was hiding that part of myself from everybody else because I didn’t want them to reject me.

This is another sign that we’re all really seeking acceptance: we change parts of ourselves that we don’t think others are going to like or accept.

Have you ever found yourself talking to someone and thinking: “I can’t say X because this person won’t understand” or maybe you don’t think about it consciously like that but you kind of guard yourself to the point where you only talk about certain things with certain people. You’ve got a line and you can talk and talk and talk right up until you get to the line and then: stop. We all do this. I don’t care how popular you are or how much you enjoy talking with others. We hold parts of ourselves back because we don’t think that people will accept us.

Ok this is the point in the talk where you go: so what?

It’s one thing to see how we all are seeking someone to accept us; seeking someone to say “I like you just the way you are”. But how does that affect our lives?

Let me suggest two ways that we can take this knowledge and apply it to our lives:

The first way I think we can learn from this is by simply understanding that we all have this desire for acceptance.

In our own lives we can keep ourselves out of some really hurtful situations by knowing that we seek acceptance. We can keep ourselves from getting into some toxic relationships by recognizing when we might be leaning too heavily into a boyfriend or girlfriend. If we’re really aware of our need, we can catch ourselves before we get into situations that have the possibility to be hurtful.

We can also keep ourselves from becoming emotional leeches by recognizing that we’re really seeking acceptance and finding healthier outlets for that feeling.

We can also learn to be better friends. When we recognize that the people around us want to be accepted, it allows us to think about them first and try and be accepting for them. For example, if you find yourself in a situation where there is a new person in your group, if you know that they probably want to be accepted, you can do simple things like asking them questions and keeping them involved.

Going along with that, one of the ways that I’ve been learning to look out for the concerns of others is to simply be involved in every conversation that I’m part of. Instead of thinking of the next thing you’re going to say, be involved in what your friends are saying. When you pay attention to what they’re saying, you’re telling them that you care about them and that you accept them as valuble people.

So far we’ve looked at this idea of being accepted and seen how each of us longs to be known and love by others. We want someone to come along side us and say “I like you. I want to spend time with you”. We’ve seen how that desire will drive us to some pretty unhealthy places like staying in bad relationships or censoring ourselves instead of standing up for what we believe it.

I think that this longing to be accepted goes far deeper than simply having a big group of friends or having a loving boyfriend or girlfriend. Even if you could have all those things and feel loved and accepted at home, it still wouldn’t be enough. I mean no one knows 100% if what goes on inside our heads. No other person can truly know us and therefore no one can accept us 100%.  And if we’re honest with ourselves, there are parts of ourselves that we’re not proud of. There are things we’ve done that we don’t even like; things we don’t want anyone else to know about because they show just how messed up we are.

We long for acceptance because we’re actually longing for something far bigger than merely the acceptance of a friend. We’re longing to be accepted by God.

God is the only one who knows 100% of our thoughts; the only one who can see us for who we really are: the good, the bad, the ugly. We want someone to accept us 100% but God is the only one who is capable of doing this.

I don’t know what preconceptions you have about God. I don’t know if you view God as some supreme court justice in heaven who’s just looking to punish you for everything you do wrong. I don’t know if you even believe in God. But let me assure you of this. There IS a God and He WANTS to have a relationship with you that is loving and accepting. He knows everything you’ve done and still wants to know you. But we need to be honest about who we are and what we’ve done. We need to accept that we’re jerks a lot of the time and that we’ve done a lot of things that are wrong. We’ve done a lot of evil and horrible things. We’ve lied and cheated. We’ve lusted and tried to fill the holes in our lives with a lot of junk.  We deserve punishment.

 But God wanted to have a relationship with us so bad that He sent his only Son Jesus to take all the punishment that we deserved. That’s how bad he wants to have a relationship with us. In fact, the Bible says that BEFORE we get our lives together, BEFORE we even try to live a life that is pleasing to God. WHILE we were still helpless and pathetic and evil. That’s when Jesus died for us. He didn’t say “hey, get your life together, then come and talk to me”. No, he said, I want to have a relationship with you so badly that I’m willing to die for you even BEFORE you care about me. That’s sacrifice. That’s someone who loves you.

That’s what really drew me into a relationship with Jesus. I suffered from anxiety disorder and depression throughout my jr. high and high school and that kept me from forming any real friendships. All I wanted was to be accepted by someone. It was really that desire for acceptance that led me from a head knowledge about God to a place where I was willing to give up my life to accept what Jesus had done for me.

So I want to ask you today, are you seeking acceptance? Let me encourage you to go to Jesus with that desire. He’s the only one who knows us fully and loves us enough to die for us.

The Northern Lake

At dusk the deer venture down to drink and browse on the shrubbery that grows along the shore: a wary doe, a yearling fawn, and overlooking it all, a vigilant, spike buck. His eyes and ears ever watchful as the pair in his charge happily gorge themselves on young shoots. In the placid water, the trio is inverted reaching down rather than up. The doppelgänger buck’s nose twitches, testing the air, its ears turning this way and that.

Somewhere off in the gathering darkness of the forest an owl begins its evening reveries, a mournful cry echoing across the expanse. The spike turns his head in the direction of its origin then returns to browsing.

Though the gloom has already returned to the forest floor, the lake still shimmers with the sun’s fading rays, hovering just above the tree-line. The uttermost branches of the towering pines and golden aspens that ring the lake are aglow in brilliant autumn’s fury even as their roots descend into shadow. The wind bends their tops bringing the tannic aroma of pine.

Branches crack somewhere in the distance; some forest denizen abroad; perhaps a marten or a fisher surveying a night’s meal. A scuttle issues from a tree, a raccoon descends for a night of childlike revelry.

The deer are gone.

Such is the drama of the northern lake, a uniquely idyllic scene known by those who venture forth into the wilds of the north extremes. They retain some of the mystery lost by their southern cousins to development and the encroachment of man. Still here, if one is willing to heave brave the extremes both meteorological and entomological, one may find the remnants of our boreal past. Few pleasures of modern life can rival the pristine wonders here. The television cannot equal the dramas played out in the wilderness. Radio cannot match the pervasive shush of the wind confronting the leaves in perpetual assault. The internet does not hold mastery over the sense of all-encompassing awe when we are able to quiet ourselves for five minutes in the shadowy domain of the forest floor. Perhaps one day these mysteries too will be lost, a relic of some former unenlightened age. We would do well to weep at the possibility of a time when development or attention span will place there outside our grasp. Pity it will be if children grow up without wondering with baited breathe what creature was stirring outside their tent.

Today though, these mysteries are still possible and can be ours if we can quiet ourselves long enough to comprehend them. A balm and elixir they still can be to our harried, frantic souls. If only we were to set aside so-called comfort for solitude. We live our lives destitute of wonder; starving for the natural world, which has become all too detached from us. Too often have we sacrificed peace for convenience. It may yet be remedied, if this insidious disease has not too far advanced, by returning, if even for a day, an hour, a moment to the beauty of creation.

The sun has departed. Shadows fall upon the cool, silent water from whose depths springs bubble up from the aether. Mayflies dance above the surface, daring ever closer in their bold pursuit. Perhaps tomorrow a loon will glide in gentle repose over the water, confident in its solitude. Perhaps its haunting cry will echo through the wilderness. Let us stay awhile and see…

The Blessing of Delay

I have some pretty bad days. On the low days I often feel beaten down by the troubles of my life and the anxieties of my mind. There are many days that the victory is simply persevering; pushing through to another day. There are times when my own striving against sin seems to become a war of attrition, or worse --- a quagmire. There are nights I close my eyes pleading for the Lord’s power to get through another day.

In addition to the trials and temptations, I am particularly affected by the pains of the world and of those around me. I’ve always been this way, even before I came to know Christ I can remember attending a party where the guests were engaged in all sorts of licentiousness and promiscuity. Even in my pre-regenerate state I was overcome by the sin and evil present there. I knelt on the ground in pain for my friends. In fact it was this very sense of innate sinfulness of the world that led me later to seek Christ.

Similarly, I am affected by the pain and ungodliness of the world. Many days after hearing of war and famine; of precious men and women pursuing ungodly paths, I am stricken and tempted to despair. When the righteous are persecuted, oppressed, and ridiculed I ask: “How long Lord must we endure?” This is the thought I often return to:  a yearning for the day of reconciliation when we will see our Lord Jesus face to face; when all pain will be wiped away.

Perhaps, however, I am approaching this world all wrong. In 2 Peter we read: “The Lord is not slow to fulfill his promise as some count slowness but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance” and later “count the patience of our Lord as salvation.” Could it be that in my weariness and dissatisfaction I am mistaking unhappiness for blessing? Perhaps in the fishbowl world of my own self-absorption I am missing the patience of God in light of my own trivial, temporary discomforts? In truth the fact that we are still in this world (and thus experiencing the pains that come with that) is evidence not of the Lord’s absence or forgetfulness but rather a testament to his patience and desire to see men and women saved. When I realize this, I am made aware of my own narrow selfishness and challenged to praise the Lord for his reticence rather than condemn Him for His perceived inaction. What would He be able to do through me if my eyes were open to my role in bringing about God’s purposes instead of clouded by my own pride?