Bright Alley

It is a sad life to live, having your heart not fully committed to something, but knowing that it should be. Feeling a pull, a tug, towards something good, but yet fully ignoring it and walking the other way. Turning away from that which gives life and embracing that which tears down life.

How often do I find myself in this city? Walking the streets, standing at intersections, at forks in the road, with direction to choose. Why do I so often choose the wide darkened street? It is full of life, but it is not alive. What is it in me that chooses to stand beside the less faithful, the lesser love. That which is not love at all. Should it not be the other way around? Quickly running to the light and fleeing from the throes of darkness? Maybe it's because light exposes. Maybe it's because exposure tag teams with vulnerability and leaves me feeling naked. It's like that nightmare that many of us have had in our lives, where we find ourselves walking the halls of high school, only to realize that we forgot to put on pants or some other important piece of clothing. It's that same exposure that Adam and Eve felt as they hid in the garden. So much fear of being seen as I really am. Why am I so afraid? I'm not sure I have the answer.

But all that to say that I feel like I keep finding myself at the ugly end of a bad decision. A wide, dark street. Ignorance leaping to life in my heart. Apathy and laziness dancing to its tune.

I need Grace today. Grace to forgive, instead of harbouring bitterness. Grace to give, rather then covet. Grace to truly love, instead of having my eyes on me. Grace to step off the wide streets and slip into the bright alleys.

They shot the popsicle man!

Yep, they shot the popsicle man. Right in front of her. I'm not sure what he did to deserve death, but it seemed like a small detail compared to the fact that he had just been shot. There was a lady at my home group sharing this story about when she was little and lived in Rio de Janeiro. She saw the popsicle man get shot right in front of her. Rio de Janeiro is one of the most violent cities on earth and apparently it wasn't uncommon for her to see bodies in the streets. Days passing without anyone touching them.

I guess it caught my attention because I have been thinking a lot lately about life and death. This thing called death is so strange to think about. It comes for us all, some sooner then others, but I can't shake the feeling that one day, this thing called life will come to an end. One day I will be swallowed whole by the grave and all the things that I am stressed about right now will be nothing but a vapor in the wind. This moment is fleeting, this breath that I breathe is fading away, and each minute that passes brings me closer to a destiny that comes to all men. It's not that I'm scared of death, for I know the fate that awaits me, but it's the time from now until heaven that I have been thinking about. Thinking about death always puts the current moment into perspective. For I am a flower that is fading away, scorched by the light of the sun. It causes me to rethink the way that I am spending time. I seem to be going through life as if I have a lot of time to spare. Putting things off until days down the road. Days turning into weeks, weeks turning into months. I mean it is halfway through the year 2009. We are in the future. I remember people asking me what I thought life would look like at age 25. I could never come up with any type of answer because 25 was such a far off figure. And now that 25 has come and gone, I'm left with a memory that was once "the future". It seems with every passing year, the next one seems to move a little faster. It's as if the world is gaining momentum and I'm just hanging on for the ride. People always warned me about this, but I don't think that I ever really listened.

I guess I was vain to think that the world wouldn't pass me by. It was vain to think that time was my friend and that it was looking out for me.

I was sitting at a baseball game the other night, just observing the thousands of people around me, and a thought came to me. I thought about how all of the time that has ever existed on this earth has brought us up to this point. We are standing on the back of history. History carries with it stories of people who lived their lives to the fullest, who didn't let one day slip through their fingers. It also speaks of people who squandered their time here, led astray by apathy and laziness. I long to be the former, not the latter...

Cause you never know when you can go. I mean, one minute you could be selling popsicles, and then the next minute be dead...

Oh, the brevity of life

Fainting Goats and Senior Citizens

I'm not sure if it's a blogoshere faux pas to repost an old blog but I'm going to do it anyway.  I wrote this two years ago and it captures what I was feeling today.  I am in the decision making process and couldn't find other words to describe how I feel....

So my sister wants a fainting goat. When scared, the muscles of these goats get stiff, causing them to stop dead in their tracks and fall over. It's actually quite amusing to watch and they provide for some quality entertainment. They fall over and lay belly up, paralyzed with fear. Sometimes they don't fall over and they just get stiff legs and then try to run away. Some, over time, even learn to lean against things so that they don't fall over.  

The other night I went along with my family to a dinner with my grandparents and a few members of my extended family. It's a yearly thing, I think, and I felt kinda awkward because the majority of them were in their 70's or 80's, with the exception of my family. Whenever I'm around older people like that I always get kinda sad. I mean, not all the time, just sometimes. I always begin to think about how life goes by in the blink of an eye and how I like being young and how I'm not looking forward to the days of fuzzy slippers, dentures and aches and pains. In reality, I guess being old wont be that bad, it's just that much closer to heaven. Maybe I get sad because I'm just scared that life will be over before I know it. That I'll be eighty and full of regrets, with the grave eagerly awaiting my presence.  But as I think about myself at that age, I always wonder what my stories will be. Did I live life to the fullest?  Did I learn to love and be loved?  Did I see justice spring root, or redemption come near?

As I sat there silently listening to these older folks reciting memories from their journeys, I began to think about those goats. About how fear paralyzes them and keeps them from moving. A lot of my life, as I look back on it, has been lived in fear. Fear of risk, of failure, and even of success. And I concluded right then and there that I did not want to live life belly up and feet in the air. Or even run through it stiff legged. I do not want fear to dictate the paths that I take. Nor do I want to let life pass me by and not have any stories to tell.  When I'm eighty and sitting around a table with friends and family, pulling memories from old shelves in my mind, I want to be able tell stories of adventure, hope, and transformation.  Of redemption and justice.  Not stories of a life lived in fear.

 

What will your story be?

Another Day, Another Dollar

Today was  a good day.

For the second day in a row I followed a witch to work.  An apparent witch I should day. Maybe I shouldn't assume, but with "protected by witchcraft" bumper stickers and the like on the back of her vehicle, then maybe its safe to assume. It was weird because of the location of my job.  It's kind of off the beaten path and not really around much, so it was strange that I followed her for 15 minutes to the same exact location.  Anyway, I couldn't help but wonder about how the heck witchcraft could protect her.  Does she know who she serves?

I got a raise today at work.  I've been anticipating it for a while, so it was a relief when I laid eyes on my paycheck.  My feet felt a little lighter for the rest of the day.  It wasn't as much as I had been hoping for, but I am thankful all the same.  Every little bit counts.

There are many songs in my life that stir up feelings of nostalgia and "Don't stop believing" is one of them.  It came on the radio about halfway through the day and my mind was in another world.  A few years ago, I spent the weekend in Philadelphia with a couple of friends.  After dinner and wondering through the art galleries, we found our way into The Plough and The Stars, an Irish pub, located in old city Philadelphia.  It was cold and rainy out so we got a little table near the fireplace and started playing some cards.  People kept looking at us strange as if to remind us we were in a bar.  I guess most people don't play cards in a bar, they drink.  Drown out their worries and live the good life.  As the night went on, this place got packed.  It was hard to walk and people were crowded all around each other, shoulder to shoulder, as many bars are on a friday night.  But we were still there, nestled at our little table, our own little pocket of peace.  The Dj that they had was playing good music, but I'll never forget when he played that Journey song.  The whole bar stopped their conversations and began to sing along.  It was a thunderous sound, with hundreds of people singing their hearts out.  We couldn't help but sing along.  I got shivers because it was such an epic moment of unity. In a bar.  Every time I hear that song, I am in that bar, singin along.

This evening I went to dinner with some dear friends of mine.  We tasted of some find mexican food and conversed about money and dreams.  We talked about how money doesn't make us happy and how we don't want to spend our lives living for money,  so that we can die rich.  It's not worth it.  Life is too short, my friends.  Too short to spend it on worthless things that are fading away.

Yep, today was a good day.

 

Sometimes angels sing

I work with a guy named Joey. Born and raised in Mt. Vernon, New York. I think I called him George for the first month that I worked with him. Not sure if it was my lack of hearing or his lack of pronunciation, but the name George entered my head for some reason on that first day. I felt so lame when I asked the manager of the shop if I should check with George about something and he looked at me funny and asked “who’s George?” Hey, its hard keeping track of names in a new environment right? Anyway, Joey works in the paint room, spending the day painting and finishing cabinets, putting all the finishing touches on our work. He has his own little room in the back corner of the shop where he spends time with paint fumes and a radio blaring the best of southern gospel. He has been on a southern gospel trip lately, so we have had the privilege of hanging with the Gaithers, Gold City, Imperials, and Cathedrals. Those aren’t new names to me, as my father loves southern gospel music, and I grew up hearing those tunes flood the house daily. The first day that Joey played that station, my mind went scrambling back to those days, when my father would play his southern gospel music and walk around the house, waiving his arm like a chorus conductor and singing along. Occasionally throughout the day we hear Joey singing along with the radio, going for the high notes and all. All of us at the shop stop for a second, look at each other, and chuckle under our breath. A round of smiles all around.

I park beside Joey almost everyday, and when I get out of my car, my eyes always fall on the little white new testament that sits on his front seat. He goes out there and reads during his breaks and for lunch. And everyday, like clockwork, there is Joey, singing his songs. I’ve been meaning to ask Joey where he gets his joy, but I think I already know the answer.


I’m not exactly sure what the role of angels are in this world, but if I’m right, sometimes angels sing.

Thanks for singing Joey. The world is now brighter.

I remember

Today, memories of all sorts were flooding my mind while I was busy at work.  Random ones, many from elementary school.  I like memories.  A point in time that is infused in my heart.  Though many of my memories aren't good, I have many that are, and they total up to who I am today.  

I remember...

....being in Miss Hatton's sixth grade class.  She was a nice teacher, prone to smiles and good cheer, really only getting mad once in a while at the class clown.  It was during the days of Nancy Reagan's drug education program called "DARE".  Remember that?  If you don't, just go to any thrift store and look through the t-shirt section and you are bound to find a t-shirt adorning her mantra.  Anyways, on this day, we all received a red DARE ribbon to put on our backpacks.  They were poorly made and had little red frays at each end of the ribbon. If you pulled just a little bit, you could pretty much just destroy the ribbon, leaving just a pile of red thread.  Well, a few of the guys in class figured this out and proceeded to destroy their ribbons.  When Miss Hatton saw those poor little ribbons all shredded up, she was infuriated!  Now I had pulled a few threads out of my ribbon, but so little that my ribbon still looked intact, but enough to have a decent pile of thread.  Miss Hatton screamed at the two culprits and then posed the question, "Is there anyone else involved?"  Well I was scared to death, so I sure as heck was not going to raise my hand.  But before I could even think, Kurt Miller, who was sitting next to me, reached slowly into my desk, pulled out my clump of thread, and raised it towards the sky, for all the class to see.  Miss Hatton looked at me as if I had just dropped the f bomb out of my little elementary mouth and with all the fury she could muster, screamed at me to get out in the hall.  I can't remember what happened after that, but I will never forget the way I felt when she looked at me with her big brown eyes and screamed at me.  Thanks Kurt.

....going through a phase that same year of loving everything baseball.  Baseball this and baseball that.  I had a whole crew of friends who all shared my passion, and it would consume our conversations.  One day I brought in my mint condition Mike Schmidt baseball card.  The pride of the Phillies and my collection.  My baseball loving "friend" asked me to see the card.  I gently handed it to him.  He looked at it for a while and then, as if I wasn't watching, slowly put the card under his desk and proceeded to bend it completely in half.  He then handed it back to me as if nothing had happened.  Now if you know anything about baseball cards, you know that a baseball card with a crease in it is rendered worthless.  I was mad, but I didn't do anything about it.  This is the earliest memory that I have of me not standing up for myself.  I asked him why he did it and he insisted that he didn't.  And I left it at that. But man, I was sad....

I'm still not sure why these memories were living in my mind today.  They are random and from another time in life that has been long past.  Maybe it's that still small voice telling me to stand up for myself, or maybe it's saying "your sins will find you out".  I'll have to think about that for a while.  It's hard work processing memories, or scars, or joys.  Whatever you want to call them, I  am thankful that the lines on the road are still comming.

The word of the day is a conjugation of remember and memories.  Rememberies.  Go make some.

World Spin On!

So this was my new years resolution, but as you can see time has kind of gotten away from me, and the year is not so new anymore.  Days seem to come and go, leaving me to wonder at them, all the while I'm filling them with work or some other use of time.  But I'm tired of wasting days away. Of putting things off until tomorrow, when they could be done today.  If there was a crown for this I think it would be on my head.  These words find you after a long battle with apathy and an oppression on my heart that has been hard to find freedom from.  It seems the things that I love to do  are often accompanied by the hovering of a cloud, as if to keep me from doing them.  To make me run instead of embrace these things that make me come alive.  But as they say, nothing good ever comes easily.

So tonight I'm doing what can be done today, and this is it. Words meet page.   My outlet to the world.  After much pondering and many spins of the world, I've finally resolved myself to start taking time each day to do something I really like to do.  Writing is an outlet for me that I don't often use.  It helps me to process the world and my place in it.    I'm not too sure what I'm going to write about, but if I'm correct, each day is a story of its own.  And no matter what unfolds or where this leads, I'll try my best to capture my thoughts, weaknesses, understandings, and misunderstandings, all with the intent of somehow pulling us all closer to the answers to the questions that live in our minds. 

 And as the world spins on, day after day, as words and story find their way here, it is my prayer that Truth would be revealed.  That it would find its way into our being and fill the cracks of these broken vessels.  And thus this journey begins.  Not knowing where to step, but trusting that light will break in and reveal the path.  And your invited, because I can't do this on my own!

  Give light to my eyes!