the hired hand

image credit: popcrush.com/2013-sxsw-survival-guide

 

***

Every year during Spring Break, the multimedia festival known as SXSW descends upon Austin, and in its wake come hundreds of thousands of visitors to the city. In 2015, the total number of registered participants in SXSW events was roughly 400,000, and while undoubtedly this number reflects some duplicates in terms of event attendance as well as a substantial number of resident participants, it also cannot account for the huge number of unofficial or unaffiliated sideshows that are put on for free all across the city. The cast of characters that floods our downtown during this week is as diverse as it is numerous, and included in this host is no small number of drifters, vagabonds, street performers, and otherwise just generally directionless individuals. They are asleep on sidewalks and in doorways; they are lined up around the block for some arbitrary musician dujour; they are posted up on a street corner with a guitar and an amp and two chords at their disposal; they are literally everywhere.

This situation seems to come to an unattractive head on St. Patrick’s Day. Along with the aforementioned crew, downtown gets littered also with people who feel the best way to celebrate the patron saint of Ireland (dubbed so because he brought the gospel to that country) is to find a place to get as inebriated as possible.

My walk from my downtown office to the train station a few days ago was infuriating. I had to step over self-proclaimed Rastafarians sitting cross-legged in the street, dodge a guy who fell over while holding a none-too-discreet sign asking for intercourse in exchange for a dollar (or vice-versa, it was hard to tell), and elbow my way through barriers of people who were milling around as if someone had just kicked the giant downtown ant mound. By the time I got to the train, I was actually livid, and this was exacerbated by the way people were trying to pack into the train going from whoknowswhat concert to whocareswhat irrelevant other show.

I suppose perhaps the most maddening thing about this experience is that, of course, none of these people seemed to care even the slightest that they were invading the space of people who wanted nothing to do with this whole fiasco, myself included. It is as if we, those who live and walk and eat in this space every day, were actually the outsiders, as if the space were actually theirs to begin with, and how dare we think of sullying their prized collective debauch with goings to and from work and home.

My wife has told me that I am prone to a certain condition, a certain tendency or proclivity for, oh, let’s call it grouchiness. Really, it is just being flat miserable. I call this condition C.O.M.S.: Crotchety Old-Man Syndrome. I may have even used the word “youthes” in my internal rant that day.

In the moment, I was truly enraged. But after a few days reflection, I began to feel very differently. There were a few important truths that I was overlooking that day, and as I thought more deeply about them, I began to develop a different perspective, and even feel convicted about my attitude towards this event and its participants.

First of all, even if it is true that the city doesn’t belong to these people, it doesn’t belong to me either. Thinking of it as my space was just as fallacious as them thinking of it as theirs. It was, in fact, an identical attitude. The perceived attitude of ownership and selfishness I encountered that was causing me so much resentment was actually the very same attitude in my heart. In reality, the city, as all things, belongs to all of us collectively, and more importantly, to the Lord. Everything I see as “mine” is only mine to steward, not to possess, and this includes my living space and my public transportation. It also includes my heart, and on this day I was stewarding none of them well, least of all the latter.

This leads me to my next point: this mindset of selfishness and of being “inconvenienced” by all the oblivious visitors to our city was causing me such great frustration that I was blinded to the immense and abundant opportunities around me to make a difference in the lives of those I encountered. Compounding my frustration was the fact that not only were so many people in my way, but they were in my way for something utterly stupid: songs. I mean, songs are great and all, but how in the world, I thought, could they be so great that anyone would be able to put up with this nonsense: with the crowds, the noise, the smells, the abject debauchery, etc.?

But this should not have been a cause for frustration for me; rather it should have been a cause for deep concern and sympathy. Why would they put up with all of this for what I deemed nonsense? Well, because that is where their hope lies. Those who come for the music do so because there is some sort of beautiful spirituality in songs, a sense of connection perhaps that touches something in them that nothing else can. Those there for the films? About the same, I imagine. Those there for just the “experience” of it? You see where I am going. Everyone there was looking for something. Something unforgettable. Something, in a sense, defining. A moment in their lives that would have significance for as long as those lives lasted. The participants wanted to discover something new about art, and consequently about themselves. The musicians on the street playing wanted to be discovered. Everyone there wanted something tangible, something genuinely, truly real.

Many of them, it was easy to see, has been searching for this a long time, and had perhaps given up hope on ever finding it. I don’t know if I have ever seen more dejected, desperate, lonely faces in one place in my life. Faces whose names I didn’t bother to know, didn’t want to know. Faces that I just wanted to forget as quickly as I saw them.

Of course, I know that what they need is not in fact music. It is not art. It is not a chance to “make it” as a musician or a filmmaker. It is not to have their technology go viral. Because none of these things, even if they shout loud promises that they will, can fulfill us. But again, neither can avoiding them. Just as their peace cannot be found in making or experiencing all these wonderful crafts, mine cannot be found in an unmolested walk to the train, or in a quick escape from the city.

In John 10, Jesus tells the parable of the Good Shepherd, highlighting the differences between his relationship to his sheep and everyone else’s. One passage in particular stands out as pertinent here: “He who is a hired hand and not a shepherd, who does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and flees, and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. He flees because he is a hired hand and cares nothing for the sheep.”  (vv. 12-13)

As a steward of my life and my body and the place where I have been given to live, I am the hired hand. And all of the people I pass every day, and all of the people crowding the streets during these festivals, are Jesus’s sheep. They belong to him, and yet they are in my path. They are given, in a sense, into my charge, even if just for a few seconds. And yet, on this day, all I could think about was fleeing to safety. I was surrounded by people who needed, most of them desperately, to hear the gospel, to find at last the real thing they had been seeking, the saving truth that far supasses all success and relevance and creation; and yet, somehow, though the harvest was so ripe, I had no desire to work the field. Though it pains me to say, I must confess, I care nothing for his sheep.

Contrast this with how Jesus in the same passage speaks of himself in verses 2-4: “But he who enters by the door is the shepherd of the sheep. To him the gatekeeper opens. The sheep hear his voice, and he calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes before them, and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice.” And in 9-11: “I am the door. If anyone enters by me, he will be saved and will go in and out and find pasture…I came that they may have life and have it abundantly. I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” And yet again, in verses 14-18: “I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father; and I lay down my life for the sheep. And I have other sheep that are not of this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd. For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life that I may take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord.”

Consider the language he uses here: he calls his sheep, he goes before them, he leads them. He comes to them. He will bring them to good pasture. He wants to give us life, and abundantly. And how does he do so? He lays down his life of his own accord. Language of such rich and profound care, such grace, such sympathy, such utter and absolute love.

All of this is in such stark contrast to what I do, what I did in fact, and how I felt on St. Patrick’s Day. Jesus would not scoff at these people. He would not avoid them. He would not shoulder his way through them to get where he was going. In fact, they would be where he was going. They wouldn’t be in his way, nor even on his way. They would be his destination. He wouldn’t retreat as quickly as possible to the safety of the suburbs. In fact, I believe he would do the exact opposite. He would retreat from the suburbs as quickly as possible and rush to care for his sheep.

My offhand thoughts about the way people celebrate St. Patrick’s Day now seem fairly hypocritical. Perhaps intentional intoxication is a foolish way to honor the great evangelist, but it is no more or less foolish than ignoring or being downright hostile to people in dire need of a message of hope.

This must be what it means to have a heart of stone. I can honestly say I felt nothing for these people on that day. My only thoughts were of myself. My only feelings were discomfort and inconvenience and anger. There was no love in anything I said or did on that 15 minute walk. My heart was a cold, dead, rock. And I know of nothing, no physical force, no substance, no book, no activity, that can change a rock into flesh. Only a supernatural miracle, only a heart transplant, can accomplish that. I don’t just need my heart softened; I need a new one entirely. This one is ruined.

So I pray, and I ask that you will pray with me, and for me, that God will perform this surgery in me again. I pray that I will become like the Good Shepherd: someone who runs toward the mess, and looks for ways to serve those in it and lead them out of it. I cannot continue to be someone who simply serves my own needs and stony desires. Jesus wouldn’t run from the mess. He would walk right into it and try to love it as much as possible. Even if I didn’t know this from the Scriptures or from the book of John, I know this from my own life. Because that is what he did for me. He entered into all of my unholy, disgusting mess and loved me intensely, genuinely, undeniably. I want to love like that. Because if I “have not love, I am nothing.”

***

an ode for you

photo credit: “Bach Invention 13″ by Debra Hurd (http://www.dailypainters.com/paintings/240853/Bach-Invention-13-music-classical-painting-art-by-Debra-Hurd/Debra-Hurd)

 

an ode for you

 

Tell me something that you

love.

 

Be it a bread I will

bake it,

a gift I will

bring it;

a craft I will

make it,

a song I will

sing it,

 

though I am

not much

of a craftsman,

I can

read instructions;

 

and though i am

not much

of a chef,

I can

follow a recipe;

 

even though I am

not

much

of a singer,

yet still

I can

carry a tune.

 

***

 

it hunts

***

i wear my black

est black. funereal, almost.

and lay flat

est flat; under a dusty rug that is

under a heavy rock that is

at the bottom of the black

est black well. and i think

i will be safe here.

it

cannot find me, certainly, and i

exhale, a long, long

hiss, a tire leak

ing air through a crack that

cannot be sealed. and when i am

still, silent, breathless,

supine,

it speaks.

its slithering voice

whispers to me, saying,

fool.

i knew

all along

this is where

you would try

to hide.

“For when I kept silent, my bones wasted away
    through my groaning all day long.”  -Psalm 32:3

***

image credit: http://orig00.deviantart.net/0c2f/f/2008/023/c/e/_abstract_darkness__by_mysterybugster.png

Reunions

***

Your steadfast love, O Lord, extends to the heavens, your faithfulness to the clouds.  – Psalm 36 : 5

***

Not long ago i had the joy of attending a reunion of some of my friends from high school. Initially i had quite mixed feelings about the event. There were, of course, a few friends who i was very excited to see, knowing that our friendship from school remained (mostly) intact and untainted. Overwhelmingly though i felt a tremendous sense of dread about encountering many of the attendees; i had not left a good impression on many people while in school, and i could only begin to guess at how much this would still be a factor.

The evening was quite pleasant at first, comprised primarily of the standard exchange of updates. Conversation centered around jobs, children, living locations, and other sundry pieces of data about each person’s current situation. It wasn’t long, however, before talk naturally shifted to more nostalgic ground, and tales from our time together 15 years prior began to surface. This, of course, was the part of the evening i had been dreading all along.

i will spare you the details, because some of the stories i heard about myself are truly too embarrassing to pen, but suffice it to say that even i was shocked at the level of callousness, selfishness, and utter depravity that the character Rich Wilson exhibited in some of these stories. With no exaggeration, i can honestly say that i was such a pompous and disgusting ass in high school that i had forgotten some stories that most people would remember with cringing horror. In essence, i had done so many awful things to people that my memory could not contain them all.

Reflecting on this later in the evening, i found myself shaken to no small degree as a result of these encounters. This event revealed two things about my heart, things which i knew to be true but clearly needed to be reminded of. First, it still matters to me a great deal what people think of me, so much that i believe it is somewhat idolatrous. While it is true that i should be concerned with how i come across to other people, i should only have this concern in the context of my identity in Christ. My primary concern should be reflecting Christ’s love to the world, and not what opinion people may have of me. If anything, my self-image issues frequently get in the way of this reflection, and often i find myself less bold about the gospel than i ought to be for fear of seeming crazy or silly. Secondly, i have a tendency to dwell on the mistakes of my past, so much so that sometimes this becomes my identity. My mistakes and inadequacies also have relevance only in the context of the gospel: they display, if i allow them to, how deep is the Father’s love and how powerful is His redemptive might. If He can love even me, He can surely love anyone.

Somewhere between the abject blind selfishness i showed in high school and the co-dependency i exhibit in current relationships lies the proper place for my heart. This place creates a man who is aware of his failures and yet not afraid to show them because in them Christ’s ultimate grace is displayed. This place creates a man who is concerned with how others see Christ, not himself. In this place, my image is of no consequence; in this place, i am not afraid in the least of looking like a fool so long as it is done for the sake of loving God and loving others well.

Outside of this place, there is only worry, guilt, shame, and dark, weary stories from the past. i do not want to forget these stories entirely, because they remind me of who i was, and they remind me of who i would be without Christ. At the same time, i need not fear these stories nor run from them any longer. i may concern myself with how others feel about them for the sake of healing and amends, but i myself can be free to feel nothing about them. That man, praise God, has been and is being put to death each day.

Ultimately, the only opinion of me that matters is God’s. It would be great if these people learned to love me, but if they do not, God has chosen to, and that is not only enough, it is everything. i would be lying if i said i understood it, and even to say such is humbling beyond words, but for purposes of His own He has chosen to see in me His child. i pray that i will learn to see myself in the same light.

***

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end.  – Lamentations 3 : 22

fifty-one

***

i am not he

any longer

 

and yet my shadow is

as angular, black as

his was, my voice as

scratched and rasped as

his was, my words

carelessly swung

swords as were

his words, my deeds

like plowing barren fields, like

breaking rocks into

dust, sad and pointless and

empty:

 

so too were

his filthy sick

 

hands.

 

his folly is my

sadness, his failing becomes my

habit, his silliness my frivolity; his

each new birth means

my death

 

and he is born

anew

 

daily.

 

(but so too

am i;

 

his is merely of

air,

dust,

 

wind;

 

mine of

water, of

fire, of

 

spirit, unnameable un-

tameable, un-

quenchable.)

 

 

(amen)

***

Shotgun: seven microessays

***

These words stumble out slowly, like 2 am bar patrons, steeped in a forgetfulness wrought by intentional neglect. Productivity is always the fruit of a well cultivated garden, and this one has gone unweeded and unkempt for weeks.

***

Watched a movie the other day (which is the lazy man’s reading). Protagonist was a 30-year old stoner who still lived with his mother. Believe it or not, this actually appeals to me: there is a certain muck of the effortless life that one can rest in, and though it is sad and empty it is also safe and unburdensome. On some level, it’s not as bad as it seems. After all, the struggle to find meaning perpetuates, whether one is by worldly standards a success or a failure. If you don’t believe me, read Ecclesiastes.

Rambling, i know. i’ll get to it soon. This is what happens when you don’t write for a while: your efforts become unfocused, undisciplined, scattery blasts hoping that what they lack in precision they make up for in force, unaware that in many cases, precision is force.

***

There’s some saying about idleness. Devil’s workshop or somesuch. Chicken or egg situation here, as i see it. Not sure whether idleness gives room for the devil to work, or whether he uses anxiety and uncertainty to produce idleness. “Produce idleness” is a stupid phrase, oxymoronic and imprecise. A month ago i would have cared about that.

The question, i guess, is whether idleness is the root or the fruit. This is always the question, with any behavior. My guess is fruit, since it corresponds to the assertion that productivity is also the fruit, although one could argue that they are somewhere in the middle. Branches or vines that carry (or, more often, don’t) fruit, dependent on nourishment themselves but not ends, not terminal. It makes little sense to think of productivity as a fruit, since by its very definition it must produce in order to be itself. But just as it is not terminal, it is not original either. i know this because my own has been deeply pruned lately.

***

Lots of things i could blame. Sleep. Work. Nice weather. Video games. It has been mostly a question of energy. I have put more into work lately, and God has seen fit for a time to bless this work with success, and my store of energy is not infinite. Not really sure how people manage to have hobbies, jobs, and children all at once. Seems to me that even trying to juggle two of the three is a mere impossibility, and for many of us even one demands more of our energy than we have. Nice weather prompted me to spend more time outside recently. Can’t argue that this is a bad thing, really. I’m pretty pasty if i don’t, and it has been my only relief from idleness.

***

Video games. Wish i knew what it was about these that appealed to me so strongly. i suspect it is the element of the vicarious. Somehow by being even more idle, even more unproductive, i can still experience the thrill of being a hero, eat from the gift-basket of dedication, all without ever putting on pants. In the last few weeks i have made 20 million dollars, won both the World Series and the PGA Championship, and slain at least half a dozen dragons. What have you done?

***

Company coming tonight, which meant last night was cleaning night. Somehow the cleaning itself is not only not miserable, but almost enjoyable. The hardest part is getting up off of the sofa and getting started. Once that mountain is climbed, the actual activity is mostly descent, a slow stroll down into a lush meadow.

***

We’ve given it the innocent, innocuous name sleep. i guess this is because rheum is too abrasive a term. My eyes have been full of it lately, and it takes an hour or two before i can get them clear. Calling it sleep distracts us from the fact that it is actually mucus, and an overflow of this into our eyes usually indicates that we are congested, even infected. No wonder we changed its name.

Waking happens in an instant, and yet not. I am awake now, and shaking the congestion. It will be sometime, though, before i can see clearly again.

***

the habit of meeting together

***

Each morning, almost without fail, i see here at the local shop at least one group of men meeting. Sometimes there are two, sometimes more. Sometimes they are older, sometimes younger. Almost universally however, regardless of background, motivation, economic status, or any measurable demographic, they are meeting here to encourage one another in the faith. i have never seen, to my knowledge, men meeting together intentionally to tear one another apart. It seems a rather dull and obvious observation, but whether or not we know it, men need one another if the walk through life is to be successful. Whether it is genuine psychology or just a popular conception, masculinity is often associated with rugged self-reliance and stoic independence. It is the woman, popularly, not the man who asks for directions when lost. i can say with no qualms that i don’t give a hang about common notions of masculinity. i need others in my life. Badly. On my own, i am pretty much inadequate to every task.

When i first moved to Austin, i left almost every friend i had behind in Houston. Granted, it wasn’t too long before i met a few people, mostly through work, but though i got along perfectly fine with them (when i wasn’t being a jerk), one cannot make life-long friends in a day. Those who remained in Houston had been my friends for years: we had gone to school together, and weathered many a storm at each others’ sides. Obviously i did not have this shared history with my new friends, so while for a season they were the people with whom i spent my time, as soon as my work situation changed, so did my friendships. I have changed jobs three times now since moving here, and the number of people from each of those previous jobs with whom i am still in contact is miniscule. it was a very long time before i began to develop connections that were as profound as they had been in my hometown, and when i finally did, i wasn’t even ready for it.

Recently, however, i have been living in quite a wealth of friendships, and interestingly it has only happened because it was not the objective. It is really no trick to make friends when all you care about is making lots of friends. It is another thing entirely for people to treat you as a friend even after you have been deceptive and hurtful to them. As many of you know, there have been some rather rough times in my life, mostly self-inflicted. i had many “friends” during those times, people who i saw every day, hung out with at every opportunity, people who i thought would be in my life forever. Almost none of them are still around. The people who are around, however, are not the ones with whom i was honest, with whom i was “myself” so to speak, but the ones i lied to the most. The ones who were most hurt by my actions. Those who have remained to help clean up the mess. And this is why i feel so blessed.

i have only gratitude in my heart for these few people, and for God’s placement of those people in my life. i would not be making it through this aftermath were it not for the support of my true friends, the ones who, for whatever reason, loved me in spite of my faults. They have truly shown me what it means to love others as they love themselves. It is no fault to be in need of brothers in this life, nor to admit that need. It is, in fact, a strength to be able to confess that alone we are insufficient. After all, the only thing in creation that God said was “not good” was for man to be alone. The next step in this process, now that i have been so richly blessed by others, is for me to smash that sponge dry; to take all of the love that i have been fortunate to soak up in the last few years and squeeze it back over those who gave it to me. Only then will they truly be my brothers.

***

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.   –  Hebrews 10 : 24 – 25

At the End, Joy

***

The first few minutes of running suck. It starts to suck, in fact, before i’ve even begun. Perhaps the hardest part about exercising for me is getting up the motivation to go. My typical exercise session (and yes, i have actually gone enough recently to call it “typical”) is comprised of four minutes of jogging/running at six-seven MPH, followed by four minutes of walking up a 7-8% incline as fast as I can walk, which usually ends up being just under four MPH, and then repeating that cycle three-four times. Now you might be immediately inclined, unless you do much of this type of exercise yourself, to think that the last cycle is the toughest. But strangely enough, as i have already said, i don’t find this to be true. It is, in fact, the first two or three minutes when my body protests the loudest: muscles that have lain dormant all day (and let’s be honest: for years before this) are now suddenly enlisted to the front lines of action, pressed into strenuous and exacting duty. A few minutes in, though, there seems to be a threshold i pass after which my body starts easing into the work, and somehow the second cycle is much less demanding, and very nearly enjoyable.

The same phenomenon is observable in macro: the first few days and weeks of beginning an exercise regimen are horrid, especially after doing nothing for years but languishing in idleness and indulgence. But now that i have a few regular weeks behind me, i actually look forward (sometimes) to going, knowing that it is accomplishing for me what it needs to: chiefly, making me have more and better time with my wife and with others around me (that is, as much as control of such matters lies within my grasp). The point is, being able to see the end result, the fruit, enables me to appreciate the journey.

It isn’t hard to see where i am going with this, especially since this is hardly the only example from the world around us. Stepping into a hot shower, the skin actually burns and reddens in response. A few minutes later, the sensation is soothing rather than painful. Entering a room that is utterly dark and flipping on a bright light can actually cause us to wince, as if under attack by the sudden influx of protons. Yet after our pupils have adjusted, light is not only not an attack but actually an improvement over darkness: seeing our way through the room keeps us from stumbling over the dog’s half eaten chew toy and face planting on the floor. I think, too, of Isaiah 9:2, a familiar quotation that points to the birth of Christ. “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.”

What would it actually be like if, as in John 9, we had walked in darkness all our lives and suddenly had our eyes opened? We all, going from utter blackness to the brightest light of them all, would be blinded, stunned, shocked. We might have no idea how to distinguish depth, color, shape, motion. It would be a radical process of adjustment. The occipital lobe would, like my feeble legs, be arrested up into immediate action, having sat largely unused for many years.

There is a reason this verse points to Christ: this is precisely what an encounter with Him is like. When He enters our life it is as if we see light for the first time. And though we typically think of this verse in Isaiah as an expression of great joy, which is certainly is, it is also a proclamation that where we were previously blind, we will now see, but this takes tremendous healing and adaptation. In fact, our personal encounters with Him can be quite demanding, painful, blinding even, and it may seem at first as though we were worse off than before. Think of how many times the Israelites, after clamoring to be free from slavery in Egypt, bemoaned their new fate and expressed a wish that they had simply died in Egypt.

i have been there many times, and many times a day: every time He wants me to relinquish control, conquer fear, steady my heart, give instead of ignore, love instead of curse, die rather than thrive. These things are anathema to me, to my flesh. Nearly every time i am asked to do one of these things it doesn’t feel like joy, or sudden freedom, it feels, in the moment, like pain and constraint. it feels like stepping into a shower that is too hot, or onto a treadmill that is too fast.

But joy is not in immediate gratification. That is why Paul calls the Christian life a race, why he “beat[s] his body and make[s] it [his] slave.” (1 Cor. 9:27) Joy is in the long haul, the discipline, the dedication, not in the quick fix. The Quick Fix is what got us into a “quick fix” in the first place. Joy, real joy, will need to look like something different, and might very well need to look, at least at first, like something so different that it is extraordinarily uncomfortable. i must remember, we must remember, that many of us, myself chief among these, have just gotten up from our knees on the road to Damascus. We have just gotten on the treadmill of the walk, just plunged ourselves into the heat of His cleansing waters. For the most part, we are still staggering and reeling from the shock of having “seen a great light.” But given time, our skin will adjust to the heat, our legs to the work, our bodies to the strain, and our eyes to the wonder and glory of vision. After that perhaps we will enjoy the fruit of walking upright in Him, and we will see the joy of not tripping over the dog toy of temptation and face planting on the floor of sin.

***

i don’t go work out every day. Sometimes the sluggard inside wins. i am terrific, probably the best you’ve ever met, at originating excuses. i need to write. i need to read. i didn’t eat that much today anyway so i don’t have enough calories to burn. My leg still hurts from tripping over that dog toy in the dark. Whatever the reason, it is just as common, if not more so, that i fail to go as that i actually do go.

The good news is that the gym will still be there tomorrow, and i bet my key will still work to let me in.

Christ, our Key, will also still be working to let us in tomorrow. He is an Amenity that has already been provided for us as residents here. We have but to reach out and grasp hold of Him and the fruits will come. Should we fail to do so today, well, He will be there for us tomorrow. But my prayer is that as each new tomorrow becomes today, it will be the day that i stop making excuses and just go to Him.

***

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.   – Hebrews 12 : 1 – 3

some thoughts on productivity

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Not sure that i have ever felt quite this way before. i am profoundly stricken today with the sense that i have done something wrong, or at the very least, exorbitantly wasteful. i took the day off today, partially because i could, and partially with the motivation of spending the entire day writing. i have done this once before, and had a highly productive day. Such was not the case today. i struggled all day to get into a groove, and wound up accomplishing very little on the writing front, nor did i even manage to do any reading. i am left wondering if there was a certain threshold that i failed to reach. Was there a magic number of words that would have made a day off “worth it?” If there was, i didn’t make it there, and now that the day is nearly over, i am quite disappointed in myself. Now i know there will be responses to this with the character of encouragement or empathy, but that is truly not what i am fishing for here. i am not, in fact, seeking a response at all, merely musing on my own inability to be disciplined. If nothing else, i am merely writing this to have a sense that i have at least accomplished something today, and although that something is rather paltry, i am hoping that it at least assuages some part of the sensation of guilt at my own sluggishness. Count it a confession, to which no response is necessary. If you are reading this, consider it an encouragement unto discipline and productivity. i have lived today as if my time were infinite, and the result in my heart is rather strikingly sad. i pray that tomorrow God will grant me a more willing and diligent spirit, and though i realize that i have not “disappointed” Him per se, i have disappointed myself. These lessons are good, at times: they remind my heart that work is, in fact, a gift, a blessing. i pray this translates into a grateful attitude towards my work tomorrow.

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Amon-Ra

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the particular, peculiar

purple bruised sadness of sunset

lies not in the light fleeing us,

but rather in whole hosts

(nations, tribes, families)

of men, we, turning, in concert,

daily away from it.

 

(and darkness, as we know,

is the time

for secrets, for shame, for

deeds best left hidden, for

theft, for stealth, for

private weeping, for

lonely bedtime sorrows.)

 

the particular, peculiar

blushing red joy of sunrise

is that of embarrassed gratitude

that when we have turned ’round again

it is still there to greet us,

at least for another day.

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