We the humans. We the particles of dust, pieced together by molecules, pieced together by electrons, protons and neutrons.
We the proud masters of our planet earth but so irresponsible with the home given us. We the inventors of strange and wonderful things but forgetting the beauty of simplicity. We the privileged and well off but so greedy we hoard and neglect giving to others.
We the builders of skyscrapers and cathedrals but yet so eager to tear down our own houses. We the fighters for our rights while trampling on the right of others. We the advocates of peace as we war against war. We the savior of trees and killers of innocent babies.
We the theologians who know all about God's love but nothing of His holiness. We the believers of God over all but rebelling against His control. We who rebel against His control but shout accusations when things don't go our way. We the willing receivers of forgiveness and mercy but so hesitant to deal it out.
We the humans the Son of God was sent to save.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Passivity
He walks with a slouch; his shaggy hair looks like it's been disheveled on purpose. And with that crooked grin always inviting, but without pressure, I'm sure anyone would like to be friends with him.
The roads he travels are frequented often by you and by me. Those simple paths he takes, always familiar, always worn.
I walk with him sometimes, and we stroll the streets, breathing in the fresh morning air as if it were fit to make us high. We turned corners and crossed roads until we came to where the traffic was thick as fellow human kind rushed to be busy.
I saw a man standing by the curb, a piece of cardboard in his hands with the words "Family in need. Please help." scratched out in black marker. I tugged on my companion's sleeve. "Should we help?" I asked.
He turned and hesitated, hands in his pockets. "Well," he said uncertainly, "I would like to, but I'm not sure I've got any cash. Have you?"
I fingered my wallet thoughtfully. "Only about five dollars, I think. But I'm sure--"
"I don't think that would help him much," he mused. "Besides, we can't know for sure he'll use it on food. He may be into drugs or something. He should've gone to a kitchen or shelter."
I shrugged in agreement, but as we walked away, I couldn't help catching the gaze of the man on the curb and notice the empty in his eyes. And as I pondered, I realized neither my friend nor I had been down to the shelter to help.
Sunday we both sit in church, attentive and meditative. To the left of me sat a girl with large sad eyes, and I knew why. But I also had never really known her.
"Her father is in prison for driving drunk and killing someone in a crash," I whispered to my friend. "And her mother killed herself after. I feel like I should talk to her, but I'm not sure what to say."
"Those situations are always difficult," he agreed. "We could try to talk to her after the service."
But she got up and left immediately afterwards, and we did nothing to stop her but watched her go, Bible clutched in white hands.
"Next week," my friend promised.
On the way to lunch, we bought the paper. Wars and famine ravaged the pages, the tragedies eating away at my heart. "I wish I could do something more to help," I remarked wistfully, staring at the articles. "Something to makes things better."
"We can pray," my friend told me. But he forgot to mention the world's troubles in his prayer at lunch, and I never heard him mention it anytime after.
And after a while, I supposed I forgot as well.
This friend I know well, and I think you do too. His name is Passivity.
The roads he travels are frequented often by you and by me. Those simple paths he takes, always familiar, always worn.
I walk with him sometimes, and we stroll the streets, breathing in the fresh morning air as if it were fit to make us high. We turned corners and crossed roads until we came to where the traffic was thick as fellow human kind rushed to be busy.
I saw a man standing by the curb, a piece of cardboard in his hands with the words "Family in need. Please help." scratched out in black marker. I tugged on my companion's sleeve. "Should we help?" I asked.
He turned and hesitated, hands in his pockets. "Well," he said uncertainly, "I would like to, but I'm not sure I've got any cash. Have you?"
I fingered my wallet thoughtfully. "Only about five dollars, I think. But I'm sure--"
"I don't think that would help him much," he mused. "Besides, we can't know for sure he'll use it on food. He may be into drugs or something. He should've gone to a kitchen or shelter."
I shrugged in agreement, but as we walked away, I couldn't help catching the gaze of the man on the curb and notice the empty in his eyes. And as I pondered, I realized neither my friend nor I had been down to the shelter to help.
Sunday we both sit in church, attentive and meditative. To the left of me sat a girl with large sad eyes, and I knew why. But I also had never really known her.
"Her father is in prison for driving drunk and killing someone in a crash," I whispered to my friend. "And her mother killed herself after. I feel like I should talk to her, but I'm not sure what to say."
"Those situations are always difficult," he agreed. "We could try to talk to her after the service."
But she got up and left immediately afterwards, and we did nothing to stop her but watched her go, Bible clutched in white hands.
"Next week," my friend promised.
On the way to lunch, we bought the paper. Wars and famine ravaged the pages, the tragedies eating away at my heart. "I wish I could do something more to help," I remarked wistfully, staring at the articles. "Something to makes things better."
"We can pray," my friend told me. But he forgot to mention the world's troubles in his prayer at lunch, and I never heard him mention it anytime after.
And after a while, I supposed I forgot as well.
This friend I know well, and I think you do too. His name is Passivity.
Friday, September 13, 2013
In The Shadow Of A Pebble
I went running today.
A scenic, little dirt road runs by our house, and it makes a perfect outdoor running track. Starting out on my one-mile-there-one-mile-back run, I had a lot on my mind. Things hadn't quite worked out like I'd expected them to, and a pile of large projects loomed in my near future. And sometimes instead of clearing my head, I end up focusing more on the problems.
Turning around and heading back down the road towards home, I was running towards the setting sun. Of course, my writer's mind began involuntarily narrating imagery and symbolism. But then I noticed the stones.
Anyone who has ever driven on a dirt road is aware that in fact only about 25% of the road is dirt. The other 75% is gravel, those little pebbles that attack your car with pinging ferocity. (And do not question my percentages. I've lived on a dirt road for most of my life.) These little rocks, as the sun moved to level with the ground, cast long, thin, tiny shadows.
And I realized I was standing in the shadow of a pebble.
We all are at one time or another.
An obstacle looms in our path, and it's so dark we're sure the light has left us. All we can see is the mountain before us and the darkness around us. And really these difficulties we face are just little rocks, scattered across the long road of life, and we're standing in the shadow.
While right in front of us, the Son is shining.
A scenic, little dirt road runs by our house, and it makes a perfect outdoor running track. Starting out on my one-mile-there-one-mile-back run, I had a lot on my mind. Things hadn't quite worked out like I'd expected them to, and a pile of large projects loomed in my near future. And sometimes instead of clearing my head, I end up focusing more on the problems.
Turning around and heading back down the road towards home, I was running towards the setting sun. Of course, my writer's mind began involuntarily narrating imagery and symbolism. But then I noticed the stones.
Anyone who has ever driven on a dirt road is aware that in fact only about 25% of the road is dirt. The other 75% is gravel, those little pebbles that attack your car with pinging ferocity. (And do not question my percentages. I've lived on a dirt road for most of my life.) These little rocks, as the sun moved to level with the ground, cast long, thin, tiny shadows.
And I realized I was standing in the shadow of a pebble.
We all are at one time or another.
An obstacle looms in our path, and it's so dark we're sure the light has left us. All we can see is the mountain before us and the darkness around us. And really these difficulties we face are just little rocks, scattered across the long road of life, and we're standing in the shadow.
While right in front of us, the Son is shining.
Monday, September 2, 2013
The Stories We Tell
I like people.
I really do.
I've worked with people a lot and enjoyed it. From cosmetology school to selling tuxedos, my work setting has revolved around serving people, pleasing people, talking to people.
Communication is one of the biggest, most common ways we relate and interact with other humans. Writing is one major form of communication. And stories is a huge part of writing. Therefore, stories are a form of communication.
Besides reading stories, I also hear a lot of oral stories, especially since it's my job to directly interact with people. The other day I sold a professional artist a tuxedo. We talked, and I learned about his story, his passion for art, why he does art, his desire to show people the way he sees things. We parted ways, his gift to me a signed card displaying three miniatures of his photograph-like graphite drawings, mine a promise to go view his work at the local art museum.
A man still living in the '60s with a display of grey curls a top his head and sporting a tie die shirt comes by the next day. He doesn't tell me stories but schools me in his likes, dislikes and overall personality. Which is a story in itself.
The best stories to be told are ones you get to take part in. I colored and styled the hair of a precious, elderly lady, dying of malignant melanoma. She told me her story-- of her life, her son-- smile positive and soft eyes still bright as her arm was wrapped in gauze to hide the skin mauled by cancer. Fingers on her left hand were missing. When I had finished her hair, she looked into the mirror, and eyes brimmed with unshed tears. She said it had been a long time since she'd felt beautiful.
And this is why I write-- to tell stories. To tell my stories, others' stories and God's stories.
I really do.
I've worked with people a lot and enjoyed it. From cosmetology school to selling tuxedos, my work setting has revolved around serving people, pleasing people, talking to people.
Communication is one of the biggest, most common ways we relate and interact with other humans. Writing is one major form of communication. And stories is a huge part of writing. Therefore, stories are a form of communication.
Besides reading stories, I also hear a lot of oral stories, especially since it's my job to directly interact with people. The other day I sold a professional artist a tuxedo. We talked, and I learned about his story, his passion for art, why he does art, his desire to show people the way he sees things. We parted ways, his gift to me a signed card displaying three miniatures of his photograph-like graphite drawings, mine a promise to go view his work at the local art museum.
A man still living in the '60s with a display of grey curls a top his head and sporting a tie die shirt comes by the next day. He doesn't tell me stories but schools me in his likes, dislikes and overall personality. Which is a story in itself.
The best stories to be told are ones you get to take part in. I colored and styled the hair of a precious, elderly lady, dying of malignant melanoma. She told me her story-- of her life, her son-- smile positive and soft eyes still bright as her arm was wrapped in gauze to hide the skin mauled by cancer. Fingers on her left hand were missing. When I had finished her hair, she looked into the mirror, and eyes brimmed with unshed tears. She said it had been a long time since she'd felt beautiful.
And this is why I write-- to tell stories. To tell my stories, others' stories and God's stories.
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