Taking a breather..............

It seemed wiser to post this announcement here than at the end of my last post just completed. My musings may not hold EVERYone's attention long enough to find it at that location. The wife and I are taking a vacation for a few days and it seemed as good a time as any to attempt to empty my computer and start anew. It may be as much as two weeks before "Brainwaves" is back to any kind of regular output. Then, again, that all depends on whether this addiction of mine can locate another source to input during the interim. Peace to all...........

When It Rains, It Pours............."

"I think part of me always assumed faith was an intellectual exercise and that God was not an active participant, despite faith's claim to the contrary".....Matthew Sturges of Correction

When I retired from the railroad a little over two years ago, I made a few decisions, healthwise, about my life. More exercise. Less sweets. NO salt. The first two were nothing new, already part of my regimen. The third element, however, was one of my loves. It was that which creATED flavor for most foods and by itself, alone, WAS the taste of others. Nonetheless, good sense, based on nothing more than the advice of others, prompted me to quit. Cold turkey. No sweat. Until yesterday. My curiosity stirred by the use of the word on another fellow's post, I "googled" it and found myself investigating a site established by "The Salt Insititute". What these people state is that "not a single study has shown improved health outcomes for populations on reduced sodium diets". Furthermore, they claim such seasoning is vital to other areas of our mortal existence, maintaining balance in something called "electrolytes". I have no idea what those little "boogers" are. Only that the quote they issue to defend their declaration is taken from an article in the "American Journal of Hypertension". Credible? Who knows. Such terminology, though, almost makes it sound as if we were machines, rather than men. Then, again, isn't "life" simply a matter of who defines it?................

Balance. Monday morning, at 6:20, my telephone rang. The middle daughter was sobbing into the mouthpiece while driving home from work. Her ten-year old son had just notified her that his dad was unconscious on the floor and he was unable to arouse him. At about 9:30 that evening, a phonecall from my sister informed me that her husband had left her, taking with him most of her money and all of her jewelry. While the son-in-law appears to be alright, the second incident is yet being processed through the proper channels. Both scenarios, however, were but the beginning of another week, another chapter in the same old book. My relationship with my mother has not improved; to use another man's phraseology, I have been "out of step" with my church for quite some time; and now that it's too late to reserve another van elsewhere, we were informed yesterday that the lady gave us a bad price for the vacation rental I'm supposed to pick up today. Who is it, though, who could not match my list with one of their own? Items may vary, but the real challenge is not juggling that which comes to us on a daily basis. Peace isn't a matter of just eliminating the chaos around us. Rather it lies in bringing harmony and order to all we have accumulated within us along the way.................

We are complicated creatures. The structural integrity of our DNA wiring is not all that concludes our identity. There is much more to who we are than that which can be remedied by ingesting a prescribed dosage of preservative. There is a spiritual birth as well as a physical; and there is a void in our individuality that can only be filled by that which was lost in the beginning. Scripture, in several places, likens that which is missing unto "salt". Surely divinity cannot be limited to mere vocabulary, but such analogy is indeed indicative of that which the Holy Ghost fulfills in us. He does not remove us from the world. He walks with us through it. He meets us where we are and then, by His very presence, "saves" us from ourself. It was NEVER about some "Roman Road" or any other formulated requirement set forth by doctrine. He "puts the pieces together", moreso on the inside than on the outside, and how much we choose to allow Him to "salt the sacrifice" is at our own discretion. Our part in the procedure is not puffing ourself up to "move the mountain", but in humbling ourself enough to permit the "Mountain" to move us..................

Identity Crisis..............."

There were ninety-six of us who marched forward to receive our diploma that warm summer's evening so long ago. Some had great aspirations for what the future would hold. Most had an idea, at least, in what direction they might venture from there. What we didn't know was too often you get but what life brings to you. That night, however, all we could see was "freedom". The world was in front of us and we were ready to take it by the horns. Forty-five years later, thirty-nine of us gathered at the school in what was NOW the cafeteria. To get there we walked down a corridor who glass wall allowed us to discover that the old gymnasium was now a huge library. We would later learn that the old stairwell which lead down to the lower level was still there, but the door halfway down which allowed students entrance into the bandroom was not. If the stage area was yet on the other side of those bricks, it remained a mystery. The building's change in appearance, though, but reflected our own. It was evident that none of us were any longer in our "prime". The evidence was quite clear. We certainly were'nt yet restricted by canes and walkers, but our age stood out like a sore thumb, the men giving more witness to such truth than the women. Then, again, perhaps the ladies have had more practice with the "art of deception"....................

No one, of course, seemed to take our longevity as an excuse for anything other than amusement. As the photographer struggled to achieve just the right angle, we all laughed at his ability to so easily mount a chair...and then DIS-mount. When the principal took us on a tour of our surroundings, half of us got separated from the others and we joked about the possible need to conduct the NEXT reunion there in order to relocate one another. We talked about grandkids and life after retirement, about our history, in general, and learned a few things that, in our youth, might not have been so easy to share. We brought up memories that were long ago forgotten by some of us. Pranks played. Ball games won and lost. Teachers whose influence one way or the other had stayed with us. Mostly we just enjoyed each other's company for awhile. We had been surprised to note on that tour that all the pictures of graduating classes had been replaced by a small digital monitor within a glass case. The volume had just become to great to be contained by any other method. As the screen continually blinked to exhibit each group of seniors from days gone by, if you were quick you might indentify one or two people before the photographs vanished to await their turn in the next rotation. It seemed appropriate, considering our present statistics. Eight of us had already completed their earthly journey. Those of us who remained were well aware, at this point in time, anyway, that life is but a vapor..................

Our "roster" gave testimony that the majority of us yet live within driving distance, and that left me wondering how many I bump into on a regular basis without knowing it. The real mystery, though, is that, even with two people attending from out of state, we were able to muster but less than half our total. While I willl admit to it having taken a bit of coaxing to get me to partake of the twentieth, it had nothing to do with my reluctance to renew acquaintance with this bunch. I always had, for that matter, found myself very appreciative of these into whose ranks I fell when my family migrated from the inner city. We had our cheerleaders and our athletes, the "whiz kids" and the "mischievious", just like everybody else; but I don't remember any egos ever dividing us in any way. It was a great bunch and it still is. Every time I have made it to one of these functions, I've had fun. The ground has remained "level" on all accounts. It's never been a "beauty contest" and no one has ever suggested that my ten years in the Navy and then thirty more as a railroad clerk somehow established me on the lower end of the scale somehow. Conversation is more like old friends getting to know each other better than we did in those days. You can say what you want about youth. This end of the spectrum isn't so bad, either. I'm just glad to have gotten this far..................

The Tie That Binds............."

Father's Day. My thoughts on this subject began in the comment section at another site. A young woman in the early weeks of an unplanned pregnancy, having been raped during "Holy Week", was expressing her gratitude. "Your beautiful piece has made me see that God has found a way to bring me life, love and looking forward," she said, "out of even some things so unimaginably sordid, violent, hateful and best-forgotten." It seems that even though a lot of "well-meaning people" had counseled her to abort the baby, she, herself, couldn't find it within her to consider such option and her decision had then alienated her from her own parents. Whatever feeling such "divorce" produced within her, a friend of mine who's a waiter down at Bob Evans took me to the other side of such issue. Taking me aside as we entered the premises, he sought my approval of his sentiments as much as anything when he told me of his daughter's invitation to celebrate the holiday at a get-together at her house. His bubble burst, however, when he discovered she was also entertaining her stepdad, the guy who had "busted up" his marriage in the first place. In today's society, such situations are no doubt commonplace. The girl was probably "caught in the middle", attempting to hold to both sides of what she had left. My friend, though, felt betrayed..................

Last night I talked with an old classmate. There were ninety-six of us who graduated in ' 59 and this woman was one of those who, for the most part, was but a name on the roster. Not that she didn't involve herself in certain school elements; only that she was never a member of the AFTER-school bunch. Dances. Social functions. Ball games. One never found her at such activities. in those days I was too busy with my own life to take notice. The reason, I learned, some forty-five years later, was related to her dad's death in WWII when she was but four years old. Her mother never re-married and, in trying to survive afterwards, earned a living by playing a guitar and singing in local bars. When mom died of cancer, my friend, at age ten, was then sent to live with an aunt and uncle. Such relation was evidently paternally linked, for it seems these people ordered her to never speak of her mother again. She was kept isolated as much as possible and forbidden to participate in all but those few academic groups. Graduation brought freedom. Her father's GI Bill bought her higher education and a life of her own. Somehow, as she related the story to me, in my mind's eye I could see pop smiling...................

Family. The word is defined as those people or things which are living together under one roof and one head, or else grouped in such a way as to possess common ancestry, characteristics, or properties. Out of the same Latin root comes the idea of being familiar, or "closely acquainted to the point of being casual and having a lack of formality". In its original linguistic form, however, the term would be better translated as "household", embracing servants as well as "blood" and, in so doing, allows us to better perceive the original intention of its use. Nowadays, though, most of us in America wash our own dishes, do our own laundry, make our own beds; and it probably isn't the maid or the butler who falls within the realm of such nomenclature. Just who IS considered as such no doubt varies from person to person. We're to the point in this country where one almost needs a scorecard to keep track of the players; yet to what degree such "attachment" affects our heart is another matter. Only one thing is sure: to love is to open yourself up to be hurt. So it is. So it has always been...................

"I’m seeing that there is a place for active engagement in the world around me, but that I cannot save the world from its fallenness. That I am a captive to the system, as well. That God is in control, not me. And that the motivation that needs to be attended to is that my chief aim as a follower of Jesus is to love well, regardless of the outcome, regardless of the context".........I'm thinking I "stole" these words from Karen, believing they would fit in well somewhere else. this seems as good a place as any...............

Can You Hear Me Now?............."

There were only four of us last night. We stood outside for a few minutes waiting on a possible fifth and then had difficulties with the door. The buzzer wasn't operating properly and the fellow had to come to manually allow us entrance. It's an old building, no doubt some sort of office at one time or another. The area just inside was probably a foyer of some sort where a receptionist once greeted customers. Now it's just a dark void through which one passes, ascending a few steps to reach another door that opens unto the dining room. There's always a table to one side with a pot of hot coffee brewing. A little hallway takes you in deeper, past the kitchen and then more stairs that either descend to the restrooms and laundry equipment, or climb two floors to some offices and sleeping quarters. Just beyond such space, our "congregation" awaited. Some familiar faces, part of the program that they provide there. Most there for no more than what's provided on a daily dosage. Transits who are just passing through. All, though, know the "routine". As I set up the CD/tape player and the others begin to mingle, shaking hands and just being friendly, one of the men will turn off the television and another will begin to pass out hymnals...............

When we visit the Youth Detention Center, it's a different experience. The facility, itself, is no more than a holding unit where the "inmates" await their assignment to other institutions. The ratio of boys to girls is about three to one and there's usually no more than around fifty, total, who are ushered into a small gym area to receive ministry. When I ask how many of them have any sort of "church" background, I can expect maybe six to raise their hand. That all translates into: (a) We will see these individuals, for the most part, but once; (b) They don't know Moses from the apostle Paul; and (c) Biblical terminology and phrases are a mystery. At the Rescue Mission, however, the men are familiar with Scripture. They've had it preached to them from pillar to post. From coast to coast, many the time, they've "paid" for their supper by submitting themself to a "dunking" in the sacred text. They've heard so many denominational theories on the subject matter that they've all got their own opinions. In actuality, this is THEIR "church". We are but "part of the evening's package".................

Evangelism. Matt, of "Connection", recently posted both his views and his history along those lines. As usual, a great piece of writing. What he stressed was the idea that we live in a world where anybody and everybody is out to sell you something, and most christian witnessing comes off as merely one more "sales pitch". Some of us, of course, are more "enthusiastic" than others, quite capable of "mugging" any poor soul unlucky enough to cross our path. I would be less than truthful if I didn't admit that one of the advantages to the above scenarios is the fact that you have, for the most part, a "captive audience". Still, if all we tried to do with such opportunity was to forcefeed such recipients but chapter and verse, ramming home our personal doctrines, what would we accomplish? I much prefer Matt's advice on "relationship". Much better, in my opinion at least, to simply open up the vessel rather than the Bible and to allow Christ to come forth. He is yet quite able to speak for Himself without me beating someone over the head with the Book. Whether you're fourteen and marched in from a cell or forty-seven and reduced to accepting charity from whatever means available, you've a soul that needs no more than to know it yet has worth and it yet is loved...................

Giving Up the Battle..............."

The rain had eased up until it was no more than a fine mist. It was evening and the sun was going down, but the overcast sky hid any determination of its location. Light lent itself to the grayness of what was left of the day. Birds were yet chirping, going about the business of whatever birds do before retiring. Darkness was winning the battle, however, oozing in ever so slowly to swallow the world as I knew it. Then the melody being played would change to the sound of crickets and tree frogs. I sat on my front steps beneath the overhang, protected from getting wet while the pup searched out the yard and took notice of a world other than the inside of my house. When the train blew its whistle as it passed on the tracks just above us on the hillside, it was simply noted and dismissed. Even nature, in these parts, is accustomed to such interruptions. The roar of the engines, the clickety-clack of the cars trailing along behind them, all did little to change the disposition of the neighborhood or my mood. Elsewhere bombs explode on a daily basis. Elsewhere sirens whine and people "weep from their bellies". For the moment, in my neck of the woods, there was peace; and I was thankful for it...................

Rebecca's post gave me reason to smile yesterday. So much wisdom in one so young. Speaking of feeling "left out" lately when the Holy Ghost moves within her church service, she found herself thinking something was wrong with her. She was happy. She could enjoy what she was seeing take place in others. But, equating "fullness of joy" with being in God's presence, she knew that she wasn't where she wanted to be. Her conclusion? She had been working too hard to accomplish such positioning on her own. Instead of "eating the bread that Christ gives", she had been "mentally, emotionally, and spiritually trying to go up to heaven, grow the wheat, grind it into flour, make the dough, bake the bread, and THEN eat it". All Jesus really wanted of her, however, in her words, was some "co-operation". In my words, it's called "faith". Not in the sense that they preach it nowadays. Not in the sense of picking up some two-edged sword to do battle with whatever's come against you. Rather, in my book anyway, it's simply the knowledge that He abides and the ability to rest in that assurance. Out of that fountain, He comes forth. Out of that recipe, He IS our manna and the source of all that we are................

There is a kingdom within every born-again believer whose borders are determined only by whatsoever limits they, themself, impose upon it. I looked, tonight, into the eyes of a man desperate to find that which he thought he had lost along the way. He knew the ache in his soul for his three kids left behind in Texas. He recognized his inability to cope with those things which had him bound. What he couldn't grasp was the truth that the same loving God Who had once taken up residence inside the very depths of who and what he was...was still there pleading with his heart to simply surrender and allow Him to take over. The idea that peace was a Reality already alive in his "belly", a divine Presence Who required nothing more than his surrender in order to breathe life into his existence, was more than he could fathom. He wanted deliverance, but could picture it only in his terms. Too many years. Too many failures. Too convinced that there remained no hope. We prayed. He expressed his gratitude and left, a man yet struggling with his own war and unwilling to accept that grace had won it long ago..................

Hit or Myth?............."

My pastor was out of town this past Wednesday evening, on a yearly mission trip to Mexico with a group of our teen-agers. His vacancy behind the pulpit was filled by the most recent addition to our staff, a young married man with no credentials as far as any Bible doctorates. No degrees. No preacher father. No wife who sings and plays the piano. His sermons, nonetheless, feed my soul, this particular message dealing with "bringing in the harvest". He spoke of God's presence being represented in Scripture by rain and by fire, and then took us to the Book of Ezekiel where the prophet is spiritually led to measure the depths of a great river flowing forth from beneath the temple. Emphasizing the need for evangelism on our part, the service's "designated hitter" asked us to consider the idea that those waters got deeper the farther they got away from the temple. In other words, the "anointing" of the Holy Ghost only gets "thicker" as the Church reaches out unto a lost and dying world. Outreach and the Gospel go hand in hand in "my" book, and his statement brought a smile to my heart. The longer I chewed it, however, the more I became convinced of its error. God's presence "fills" whomever is willing to receive it, and it ministers wherever it is needed. It arises from within the man, himself, and whether the vessel sits on a pew or in the projects has nothing to do with the depths possible to achieve.............

Last night, part of our worship was set aside to allow the children who had just returned from camp to testify. We had already heard, earlier, from a few of the counselors what a great move had taken place amongst these small ones. "Little diddles". Ages six through twelve. Not enough along in years to fully grasp chapter and verse. Too immature to fully understand all the reasoning behind our individual doctrinal prescriptions. Nonetheless, it seems, someone Friday night had touched the hem of His garment and the entire congregation of kids went swimming for two and one half hours in the overflow of that stream. Speaking in tongues, hands raised, and an abundance of tears that poured from their "belly", not just their eyes. I've carried my own daughters home in that condition more than once. At times, they had to wait until I climbed out of the current, myself. It's good for the young. It's good for the old. You can have as much or as little of it as you want, but only through the surrendering of all that you are. Immersion. It doesn't take faith; it creates it....................

Some would argue the validity of the Bible, question its authenticity as the Word "of God". Full of myths and fairytales, they say. Traditions and legends set down by men no more than you or I. Was Job an actual human being who existed on this earth at a certain point in time or merely someone's primordial version of the immortal Scrooge? Was there an honest to goodness prodigal son who really did "come to himself" in a pig sty and return home? We could debate much of that which is contained within the Scripture. When we got through, what would we have proved? Either a man believes, or he doesn't. Christianity isn't based upon how accurate I establish the Book to be, but upon a Resurrection of the Book within me. Either it confirms itself in my life, by manifesting itself in my life, or all I've got is but one more dead religion..............

Two of the last words spoken by Jesus upon the cross amounted to no more than "I thirst". Yet He refused such drink as offered Him by those who were near. Perhaps, even as he once told the disciples that He had meat to eat that they knew not of, what His very soul cried out for was not of this earth. David, in the Book of Psalms, referred to it as "deep calling unto deep". Thank God for a fountain, born out of such suffering, that shall never run dry and that is able to water my soul again and again and again..................

Yea, I Say Unto Thee............."

Look at the old goat. He's a bit of a nut, I'd say. A real fruitcake. He's been like that ever since he claims to have seen that thing down by the river. It's supposed to have dropped down on him like a whirlwind out of heaven, stirring up such a cloud of dust he could hardly breathe. Some sort of fiery chariot. Bobbing. Bouncing. Running to and fro. Quite a story if you can believe it. Four wheels in the middle of a wheel. Four creatures, alive, and yet no more than a part of the whole. Then the glow. A brightness that consumed the entire area. But get this: Out of such light...the voice of God Almighty. Yeah; I kid you not; and from that day forth it's been nothing but "doom and gloom" around here. "Repent! Repent!" Do you know he laid around here for a year once laying siege against a picture of Jerusalem with nothing but twigs and dirt? How's anybody with a scrap of intelligence expected to put any confidence in a screwball like that? Listen to him. Who's he talking to, anyway?...........

Two days into a weekend that has no end, at least for the next ten weeks or so. I can handle that. What I AM having trouble with is a subject that has been rolling around in my brain for the last few days. In the 28th Chapter of Ezekiel, an old man who claims to have received his "call" from an "unidentified flying object" is now found talking to the devil as if he were standing right there in front of him. Referring to Satan as "the anointed cherub that covereth" and speaking as if the Creator was personally delivering the message, the prophet attests to a time when the "Prince of Darkness" dwelt upon the mountain of God and walked up and down in the midst of the "stones of fire". More than once, lately, my pastor has brought this passage of Scripture into his sermon and equated those very rocks with being the "source of life". Drawing into his theory other verses which might support it (i.e. Jeremiah having "fire shut up in his bones"; John the Baptist declaring that Jesus would baptize believers with "Holy Ghost and fire"; and the author of Hebrews expressing Jehovah as a "consuming fire"), he, as usual, had the congregation on its feet, pumped up and shouting glory. Ever the skeptic, however, THIS "old man" was pondering from what authority he had received such revelation about three words dropped into the middle of my Bible..............

Without meaning to imply, then, that I find my shepherd guilty of anything more than giving me reason to dig into the matter, let me push on to a subject being pursued elsewhere. Prophets. False prophets, to be specific. One fifth of the five-fold ministry given in the Book of Ephesians unto the Church for the perfecting of the saints. Funny how one never hears such accusation applied in conjunction with any of the other four; but, then, at least one, the apostle, is considered by most of the Body to be terminated, the evangelist HAS been nearly eliminated from the ecclesiastical line-up, and the other two (teacher and pastor) have been packaged into denominational uniforms so that "false" is merely what one group calls the other's line of thinking. Let's face it, however. You can dress it up in a three-piece suit and pin as many degrees on it as you'd like. When you get through, it's still called "humanity" and prone to error. No; where we really stand to be "judged" is in pronouncing ourself as speaking FOR God. We have the Book. We have the Spirit. Therefore we have all the answers. Mystery solved. Case closed. "Prophet" is just a fancy word for preacher. God save us all.................

A Prime Number"...................

Her name is Amy Helsley. She and her husband are not native to this area and are hoping to move into a home next year that they've built in the northeastern part of this country. We will miss her sorely if she goes. Sitting in her Math class has been one of the added benefits of my employment with the public school system for the last two years. It is but one of her daily assignments, but one she does well. Kids who are having difficulty with arithematic attend; and, while my autistic charge doesn't participate in any of her exercises, he and I are there every morning. Since the only point in our attendance is but to allow him some social interaction with his peers, we sit at our own table and I feed him sheets of calculator work. If he is "numb" to the atmosphere of the room, however, I am not. Her lessons and the conversations that come forth have been one of the highlights of my job from the beginning. The children, themself, of course, are a joy. One little blonde girl reminds me of the "Mr Kotter" television series, her hands always up pleading to be chosen. "Oooh! Oooh! Pick me! Pick me!", she begs; and, then, when called upon, never seems able to answer. There is a boy who is excited one moment and just as apt to erupt into tears the next. Another who is more into mischief than he is anything else. It is a varied group of children in more ways than one. The scope of their ability to learn is hard to define. This teacher, herself, though, "goes beyond words". Her skills and her methods are only complimented by a personality that makes the hour "fun"....................

Today being the last time to convene, we "assistants" who were blessed just to be a part of that particular time and place were presented with "goodbye" gift: a small sandpail complete shovel and the following note which listed the various other elements contained within. She gave me permission to "put it to print", so here t'is....................
.

"It has been a pleasure sharing students with you this year. As we bring it to a close, I'd like to thank you with a little token of my appreciation: a few of my favorite childhoom memories and some simple wishes they inspire......

Wax Lips: May you always smile and never crumble under pressure.
Super Ball: May you always bounce back without landing in the gutter.
Bubbles: May you always rise above whatever bothers you.
Cracker Jacks: May you always get better than you expect.
Bazooka Gum: May your bubble never burst in your face.
Play Doh: May you always stay flexible and never dry up.
Squirt Gun: May you always hit your target and not leak in your pants.
Candy Necklace: May you always hold it together without falling to pieces.

Sand Pail: May you always be half full instead of half empty.



And..............May you always make time to play! Have a fun summer".........Amy


My sentiments to all..................

Hut, One, Two, Three............."

With but four more days of school left, I am looking forward to once again being "retired". For the last two years, all that has meant was an extended summer vacation. This year, however, my future is uncertain. The autistic boy with whom I have been working is advancing to a higher facility and I had pretty well determined, earlier, that my association with him would cease. At this stage of my life, change doesn't come easy; and, even beyond that excuse, it didn't seem reasonable to think myself as capable of seven more years to see him through to "graduation". Our efforts to acclimate him to his new surroundings, though, have given me re-consideration. In visiting the room to which he will be assigned, I am left with concern. There will be, unless something is altered in the coming months, but two students there for the term: my own charge and an older lad whom I know via my present location. From what I have observed, the unit is no more than a "baby-sitting" post. The present students but sit and work folders where they match colors or complete a number sequence. Academic instruction is basically nil. What's more, the area doubles as a "detention center" where malcontents, creating trouble elsewhere, are "confined". Such incarceration, indeed, appears to be their only discipline and the whole scenario leaves me with concern. I am therefore presently exploring a possible vacancy that would allow me to continue with my sidekick...............

Decisions. Even as I would say to those who pronounce me crazy for having taken this job in the first place: to each their own. How others walk is their own business; but, personally, I think such questions which vitally affect our life should be given to prayer when possible. Not the "now I lay me down to sleep" variety. Nor the kind someone else formulated and then you simply read it off the printed page. What Christ restored unto humanity was a "plumbing connection" between heaven and earth. What it brings unto us is the same Power Source that once met the Jewish high priest in the Holy of Holies. Divinity one-on-one with humanity, only now it is introduced via a man's "belly". A man need not be so much correctly positioned in his physical form to approach such communion, as he needs to have his heart humbled. God's grace is ever our covering; but, buried in its depths, there is a "oneness" with his Creator. There is a knowledge of His Presence. Even as the three Hebrew boys walked in the fire with the Fourth Man, there is an ability brought to us through Jesus to step "behind the veil" and know the reality of Whom we worship. If we return from such union with no more than the measure of THAT confirmation, we are then able to rest in the assurance that all things are in His hands. Whatever my option, whatever my choice, He is with me in the journey.................

A friend of mine recently blogged about something he referred to as the "rhythm of life". Whatever the first word of that phrase suggests to you, the dictionary defines it as "a linguistic or musical flow marked by, accordingly, either stressed and unstressed syllables or accented beats coming at regular intervals". When one refers to possessing such quality, then, what he actually means is an ability to "keep in step" with the "melody" being played. There is another term, "syncopation", which means that the composer has purposely "messed" with the consistency of such timing, but I can tell you this much: other than being "out of tune", there's probably nothing worse than someone singing at a different speed than what the instruments are bringing forth. That's true in the natural. It is also true in the spiritual. For those who have been "born-again", there is a "pulse" OTHER than that which is generated by the pumping process with their chest cavity. There is a cadence that God, Himself, brings to a man's existence. He leads. I follow. At His pace, not mine. Then, no matter the question or the turmoil around me, there can be peace in my soul through a confidence in His faithfulness................

Creeping Up on Tim Conway......."

My oldest daughter turns thirty-nine today. I suppose I could go into how it doesn't seem all that long ago since I held her with her head cradled in the palm of my hand and the rest of her tiny body balanced on my forearm. Somehow, though, at this stage of my life that wouldn't be true. Now and then I am shocked by something that tends to jolt my sense of how swiftly time has escaped me; but, for the most part, those events are few. I visit the past much too often to have something jump up and slap me in the face concerning it. It's like a video tape I play in my mind and, at my own discretion, I can visit for as long as I want. Just like it was yesterday I can recall her birth. The three month extended leave granted me by the Navy to be present when she arrived. The necessity of my pumping gas at a local station to make us financially solvent during that period. The look on her mother's face as she attempted to swallow cod liver oil and orange juice to induce labor and beat the deadline. But why linger there? How about four years later when their mother had both she and her younger sister fluffed up in "Sandra Dee bouffant" hairdos for the flight home from Spain, but lost her own creation when she stepped into the tub, after their bath, and discovered they had flipped the water control to "shower"? Stories. It would be easy to continue..............

If approaching forty, however, is supposed to give her something called "Mid-Life Crisis", then I'm not too sure what that says about my having already left sixty a few years behind me. What I DO know is that, at this stage of my existence, "memory" and "memories" are two entirely different words. Going back any number of decades to review bits and pieces of any particular item is no problem. Such reverie is a routine occurrence in an old man's affairs. Going from room to room, on the other hand, without losing the purpose for me going in that direction in the first place is another matter. The way I have it figured, either the bottom of my brain has rusted out or the "erase" mechanism is stuck. I keep re-loading the files, but by the time I get from here to there the information has disappeared. The vault, itself, still works. Give me an undisturbed second and any reason whatsoever and it isn't difficult at all to step from the present into, say, 1964. Once again the wife and I are in Monterey, walking the path along the cliffs at Big Sur, enjoying our youth and the beauty of that shoreline. Dinner, later, at a little Italian restaurant there in town. A movie, afterwards, viewed from the balcony of a theater just up the street. The details may be a little fuzzy, but what does that hurt? The overall picture is stamped on my heart and it IS my tale to tell................

As one's future possibilities begin to dwindle, one's history is all the more a meal to sit down to. That doesn't mean that each new dawn doesn't bring with it the aspect of adventure, nor that hopes and dreams are no longer part of the program. It's just that, in looking back, I realize God's hand in each part of the journey and to have come this far is to live with a thankfulness to have tasted of His goodness. There are some regrets, of course, but they pale in the knowledge of His grace; and how sweet it is to savor the wonder of it all from beginning to beginning. Age, I believe is an attitude of the heart. I am not adverse to my present position. As easy as it is to close my eyes and drift into that which once was, one day the "shut-down" of this entire temple will take place and it will be just as easy to find myself in His eternal presence. To each their own, they say. Some speak of gates of pearl and streets paved with gold, mansions that are under construction even as we speak. I used to declare my only desire was for a beagle dog with which to walk for the first thousand years or so and I guess that hasn't changed too much. It would be nice, though, to visit with the kids and talk over "old times".................