(fide poeta) blog

The Advent of Dawn

2007-11-28T19:57:00.000-08:00

Why leap ye, ye high hills, hills of Bashan
into the darkling veiled obscurity
of the cloudy shadows east of Jordan?

The tongues of your cows pant dry for water,
and your oaks stand bare in the tenebrae
in the dust of Og and this dim-lit night.

Why do you leap and wait and watch, oh hills?
the armies long ago have fled apace
and lions hide in Golan, waiting too

Waiting east of Galilee for some dim
hint, waiting and watching, and leaping, all,
with a veiled felt glimmer of a Coming

Wait well, high hills, your waiting tones the pang
in the lulls of every creature's heart beat,
even in the sighs and gasps of the earth

And look high, for light will shine into dark
and a king dine in Edrei with marked men
deep in the depths of your rocky fortress

Look high to Hermon, to the north, and wait
remember Job and his suffering heart
and keep a store of fine barley and wheat

and be ready.

...

Somehow drawn, I took courage and fled west ,
from between the Tigris and Euphrates,
way up into the high hills of Bashan

At the Akkadian feasts I have dined
and sipped the verse of Enheduanna;
the rulers have even acknowledged me

But I have left the city to find you
looking and finding only a crumb trail
to the hills where I go to find my Lord

For every trick has given me a brief glee
and every riddle has left me wanting
all my sash and finery is dead weight

What good are wings dripping with silver shine
and feathers golden from spoils of a war
when gravity will surely fell the dove?

A purple glass gives light its own color;
all other colors come into it, but
it is not possessed by what it takes in

A stillness covers the hills of Bashan;
I wander up into a hushed thicket
Where did you call? Did thy mighty voice crack?

or give way?

...

Howl, fir tree, for the cedar is fallen;
the impenetrable forest is swept,
and shepherds wail with Favor and Union

All hide as one lion clamors about
for none is Samson, David, nor Daniel
And we, all, lay cupping our ears below

In silence straining for the tenored voice
which turns dawn to dark and treads on Anu
and raises me from the earthly chasms

Listening, echoes, quietude, crackling,
a fire has taken the oaks and cedars
but leaves untouched the venerable seed

A lowly lone august root will remain;
surely I will not wither in this crack
where I have placed my one audacity

From a ledge, I'll play the timbrel, waiting
for the leap of a stag, who may give word
to the turn of the moon or a strange Growl

Shall I wait in the clouds, or shall I leap
from the highest hills, the hills of Bashan?
(will you meet me in the mist of morning?)

Or give way?

Introducing Ody

2007-11-09T11:03:00.000-08:00

Eighteen Ten Syllabled Lines of Assonance

Ody wrote a cogent post about how
a child's home floats like a boat around the
automated moat that molds and controls
him in a pseudo-romance procuring
total focus on cloned jokes but no growth
and how the cornerstone of psychoses
that croak in our throats are shown to be soaked
in an oblique totem that drones broken
down a lone road that groans for one poem
to be a profound opus of knowing
to overcome the societal hold
that invokes the vogue and chokes out the old
for that rote dope provokes us to vote gold
rather than listen and be told with soul
of a rose that explodes out of cold snow.
Ody chose to goad apodictic hope
in a holy hallowed probe that explodes
Rome and an ocean of sober heroes.

Says the Writer of Ecclesiastes

2007-11-02T11:02:00.000-07:00

A Terza Rima Sonnet

So everything has been given a name:
estuaries, labradors, rain, stars, wrens
lilacs, espresso, grass, windows, and cranes...

Fine. What gets me, I guess, is the reason,
the point, for all these things in the first place
when they always only last a season!

Given and snatched away: name, season, face...
waste! the woes of we who worry for naught
a sad tactic bringing only disgrace.

The true thing that we have all really sought
is to stop the damn madness of naming
and, for once, just sit and enjoy the names

The names, the seasons, the faces. What shame
that the little we know of anything
we are tempted to let it become fame!

Ruthless virus just grabs from us what seems
was once something noble, something of worth
and exploits it, exploits us, and then gleans

What little is left of our noble birth.
Take care to keep at least a bit of mirth!

Fate of the Tame Gray Moon

2007-11-02T09:22:00.000-07:00

An Experiment with Terza Rima and Assonance

A ton of crumbling cut bundles of sun
sweetened even the breezy sea
while I sat by the tide with a ripe lime so nice.

But he, in the heavens, kept wrestling,
(whilst I sipped at the rim of citrus twist)
on a cosmic thought that he was fond of fondling.

Soon that fruit took me for a loop, avoiding the ruin
that might try, from the sky,
to twist the bliss of the willow into a list of quills.

Some fat cat up on a slat cracked up and laughed
and I smirked: one, with mirth at such silly quirks
and, two, at that tame gray moon, poor old buffoon.

White Noise

2007-10-19T16:49:00.000-07:00

Two sounds are indistinguishable:
Boarding and unboarding
Feet coming, feet going

Where do we end, where do we begin
Between identity and anonymity
Vocation and vacuum?

A bunch of dawdlers
Trying to make our dawdling
Look intentional

When do we get to disregard knowing
That which changes little but a twinge of hope
Which, honestly, is still not far from despair?

………………………………………

Would we spin like a top
If the Cause pulled the string
And stepped back to enjoy our irony?

Or would we disappear
Like the light from a great bulb
Whose filament was removed?

Would we?

Kindergarten

2007-09-28T14:38:00.000-07:00

Both of Karla's kindergarten classes had the opportunity today to tell me what their favorite thing has been about being in kindergarten. Top answers: (1) My dad and my brother have the same hair; (2) I went to the dentist this morning; (3) Why do you and Mrs. Edwards have the same name?

Winter Blast

2007-02-28T07:48:00.000-08:00

A Haiku

Boy it's snowing hard
Outside in my neighborhood...
Still Winter I guess!

I Just Saw Lips Move

2007-02-21T21:49:00.000-08:00

A Renga-Style Haiku by my sister Lauren

I watch people talk
The people I see are dumb
They should shut up now

But they wont be still
Quietness is unheard of
They keep talking dumb

I look at you now
You talk and I hear nothing.
I just see lips move

Blah blah blah blah blah
Just be quiet you fool you
And I will be glad

At this point I am annoyed
At your words so meaningless

Until I opened my ears
I thought you spoke of nothing

I was very wrong
About the words being said
These words held great thoughts

I should have listened
To what you said to me
I just saw lips move

The Gray Moon

2007-02-14T21:00:00.000-08:00

A Renga Style Haiku

when the sun fell down
pieces of deep hot yellow
made me a cartoon

then i crept away
to decide what i should do
really quite confused

i asked the gray moon
who went on and on for hours
explaining daydreams

which made for nice company
but missed the point entirely

i dodged my eyes toward
the sound of the wind whistling
which made me happy

then i looked away
and saw a nimbus cloud wave
to a star that burst

he shyly giggled
when he noticed me watching
so of course i winked

if only the moon could see
what he misses from talking

DaddyTroy's Funeral

2007-02-08T07:25:00.000-08:00

At DaddyTroy's funeral in December, I spoke the following words. Then, Jason followed me with these.

Troy Griffin was always “DaddyTroy” to me. I’m his youngest grandson. Let me tell you some of what I know about who he was, this great figure of a man:

DaddyTroy was born October 19th, 1923, in Queen City, Texas, to Rufus and Eunice Griffin. They lived just down the road in Antioch, or, as he called it, “Anti.” He was retired owner of Griffin Candy and Tobacco. The shell of the last truckbed from the truck he drove is right out behind his house still. I think the older one’s out in the pasture. We grandchildren know those truckbeds really well because sometimes he’d let us join him while he was counting inventory, and we’d get to pick one piece of candy. I’d always choose Three Musketeers or Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. He’d choose a Butterfinger. Later he’s use one old truckbed to store potatoes under near his garden.

DaddyTroy was preceded in death by his extraordinarily wonderful wife of 52 years, Billie Sue Beck Griffin, “Grandmommy.” He was also preceded by his brothers Richard Griffin, “Uncle Dick” to me, and Ennis Griffin (I never met Uncle Ennis, but DaddyTroy always told me what a great fellow he was). You know, DaddyTroy had a third brother, James Floyd, who died in childbirth whom I suppose he’s getting to know right about now.

DaddyTroy is survived by three daughters and son-in-laws, Judy and Charles Flint, Jan and Larry Clayton, and Jo and Glen Edwards, all of Atlanta. DaddyTroy loved his grandchildren very much. We are Charles Jr. and Cindy Flint, Jana and Todd Hancock, Jennifer and Kearby Herrington, Karen and Joe Farner, Jason and Christy Edwards, Blake and Karla Edwards, and Lauren Edwards. And, in the last decade or so, his great-grandchildren have also brought him great joy: Davis and Owen Flint, Mallory, Carson, and Olivia Hancock, and Flint and Maddie Herrington (Maddie actually called him “Dewey,” which he did not care for at all). DaddyTroy is also survived by his sister-in-law, Sissie Griffin, and his brother-in-law and sister-in-law, Dr. James and Donna Stanley, all of Atlanta, and numerous nieces and nephews. DaddyTroy also has a couple of first-cousins here today, James McCasland and Billy Griffin…and maybe others I have not yet met.

Well, DaddyTroy loved family. He loved his family. He loved being around his family. He loved living near his family.

He told me a story this one story numerous times about how, while he was stationed down at Brooks Air Force Base in San Antonio during WWII, he would hitchhike back home whenever he got a pass for a “three day leave.” Now, you have to understand that in the 40’s, there was no Interstate 35. He was going through town after town catching rides. He never had any trouble at all getting rides as no one turned down a man in uniform back then, but it would still take him near 15 to 18 hours to get here, as best as I can remember him telling it. He would get here, and before heading back, have one full-day to spend with family and with his girl, Billie Sue, and to eat some good home cookin’. Well, one time, he had gotten as far as this side of Austin heading back to base when he was picked up by two military police. He told me he was very scared of what kind of trouble he was going to get in because, you see, his military “pass” would only allow him to go 150 miles from base (and Cass County is further than that). He told them he had just come from some small town he named off the top of his head that was nearby, and they gave him a knowing glance after seeing from his papers that he was from Northeast Texas, but told him to hop on in, and they’d give him a ride just through Austin.

He made it okay through that scare, and he continued to take every leave he had to come see his family and the woman he loved, and it was right there at the Justice of the Peace in San Antonio that he had Grandmommy drive down and marry him.

When I think of DaddyTroy, I think of his love of gardening squash and peas and tomatoes and onions and, when I pressed him hard for it, watermelons. I think of him rocking on the front porch with Grandmommy after their afternoon nap in the living room recliners. I think of Piney Grove Baptist Church, loading bales of hay, fishing with cataba worms for catfish, black coffee, picking pecans, riding a tractor, him hiding money for us in the Christmas tree every year, and orchestrating the most intense annual Easter Egg hunt in Cass County. I think of how he looked in the back of birthday cards to see how much someone had paid for it. I think of him out feeding the cows in his coveralls, and of how when he came from work or gardening or fishing or the pasture, he’d be whistling to himself, and then you’d hear that back screen door slam shut as he came inside.

I think of him and Grandmommy up early in the morning reading the Bible together out loud, taking turns, and how sometimes I got to have a turn. I think of big family fish fries out behind the house and big family reunions at the State Park and how I’d get on his “bad list” if I didn’t come (so I came). I think of Grandmommy and DaddyTroy sitting on the swing out by the burning barrel and helping him dig up potatoes from the garden. I think of their dog “Tuffy” and the big buck he killed, “Big Boy,” and how he would take out his dentures to scare us, and rock us on his knee while he sang “Johnson Had an Old Gray Mule” or “Hey Hee a Door Yer.”

I think of how he always liked if I would make his baked potato look “perty” like mine, how he always liked to mow our yard for us and that he was on the rotation for mowing here at the church. I think of how he usually wouldn’t come to the Atlanta Rabbits football games but how they’d always sit and listen to it on the radio (especially when Charles Jr. was the kicker). And I think of him sitting to play solitaire before dinner, and how he’d actually talk to “Ol’ Sol,” his invisible opponent. I think of quick teasing glances followed by a wink, pats on the back, and even the nasal spray, Afrin, makes me think of him.

I think of love and joy and simplicity and family and faith, and I think of Jesus saying, “Come to me all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest.” And I think DaddyTroy did all of that.

Transience and Fragmentation

2007-02-07T10:49:00.001-08:00

It has been said that family is a "house of life and memory." We have our being in relation to what we have or do not have in the form of a family, and that is the life part of it. And we tend, either consciously or unconsciously, to base our hopes and skepticisms and other sorts of judgments of life and aspects of life out of the socializing power of that family life, and that is the memory part of it.

Often, I don't have much to say. I'm not always a big talker. And this regularly puts me in awkward situations. My Mom, without fail, would always ask me, first thing, after I put my backpack in the backseat and then hopped into the front there in the pick-up zone at Atlanta Elementary School, "So how was your day?" I would inevitably and compulsively utter back, "Fine." She was usually gracious enough to allow me that answer without much prodding, and I appreciated that in her, the willingness to allow me some measure of space to sit in my insecurities without continual efforts to rip off the veil.

Little did I know that I'd live out much of my existence answering that same basic question with virtually the same answer to my wife and work colleagues on into eternity. It's like a twitch. It really is interesting to me, this tension between personality as a psychosocially conditioned phenomenon and, simultaneously, as a biologically predisposed entity. Because no matter which side of that particular pendulum personality psychology swings, it still leaves us all with that burning curiosity, "Am I okay?"

You know, I was thinking yesterday of how much I have always feared those first experiences of meeting new acquaintances, the burning anxiety that causes me to question whether or not they will like how I talk, what I'll say, or how I look to them. As I stepped up to the microphone last night in front of well over a thousand college students I felt this, and it's so funny to me, because at the same time I also have this strange sensation of joy and confidence in front of people. I love it, and I dread it. I dodge my eyes around and hope that my voice doesn't crack at my first word.

And then I hear someone right near stage left, perhaps a couple of rows back, yell out something like, "Go Blake, WAHOO!" It's difficult to communicate in words that feeling that accompanies an encouraging "yee haw" like this. Even just one. It's like a string tied to that upper fatty portion of your cheeks that yanks your face a bit into a smirk and brings some color back into it at the same time. And I got to thinking about how much even I, someone who by most assessments has a good deal of self-confidence, am brought into being by approval. And so you get to wondering if it's a character flaw, the product of a genetic inferiority or social insecurity. Well, I say "you," but I really mean "I," I suppose, although probably most of the time I don't wonder, I just become a little bit more alive.

It's like stepping into the light. I mean to say that when we know someone approves of some part of who we are, it is as if that part of us becomes, for that moment or series of moments, illumined. The veil is lifted. There is no need for defense; a friend has come. Maybe a new friend. Maybe a very old friend. And if neither, then there is ne'er a better way to enter in than through approval. It's like throwing open the shutters to a dusty, drab, and drafty old shack. If breath is a natural indicator of life, then giving approval is like CPR.

The truth is that no matter how any of us conceptualizes who we are and what that means in this world, we are all little more than transience and fragmentation. We are without that full sense of home that brings abundant joy enough to cleanse us through. And we are, none of us, a monolith. We are a bunch of assorted pieces of life and memory, all from broken homes and broken families, and, piece by piece, there is not a single one of us who doesn't know that tinge of illumination that comes with approval. The need for approval can be compulsive, but just about anything can be. The truth is that we all need that sort of love in our lives if we are to become who we are meant to be.

I once read that we all have "character types" that generally define how we live life, and I suppose that is true to a point. What I am learning is that no matter what character type may define us, we all have the capacity to embody those qualities which St. Paul referred to as "fruits." Our character type influences the flavor of the fruit but the fruit can be good, no matter what type of person we are, if the tree is healthy, if it is connected to life. And if love breathes life into all things, then the best way we can become who we are meant to be must begin with approval.

It's almost intuitive. When you encourage another person, if it is something you really mean, and if it relates to that person's reality and isn't some out-of-context patronization, then it really can serve to illumine a piece of that person. Truly, it can even enliven that person's spirit toward the capacity for encouraging someone themselves, for approval breeds joy which breeds love. And love will not fail. Christ will use it, from its many beginnings, to breathe us into being and to usher in His Kingdom.

What Cannot Be But Fear

2006-11-25T17:35:00.000-08:00

*to craig*

oh, the inane wrestling with
the fact of excrement,
the stupor of fate.
Away, away, O unhallowed ones!

yet, thus it goes
this mournful peace, and it hurts so much
Debilitation. and it rests dyed into
this sundry tapestry, tattered kinship and death

an emboldened confidence, giving way,
to be silent
daring to be lonely, but
to suffer not alone

daring to be rendered Speechless.
How the 'meant to be' or
'will' or 'way' may or might
just be another lame, void, easy

Determination. ah, human sympathy,
with truth can also be suspect;
how it often is only curiosity.
How dare you venture into a sufferer's secret;

how dare you urge...
or speculate, or 'try,' or pray for me with words
and intonation. Let your intonations be not heard,
but felt. Let your prayers be suffered, not satisfied.

this inclination toward loyalty, this
affinity to my emotions, this sympathy...
do not labor against me.
wasted sentiment. speak to me,

to see my face, my eyes.
come to me not to feed
but to hunger and then eat, not to pour water
but to thirst and then drink, not to dare to sagacity,

but to suffer and bore and then relish all.
To relish All: doleful beauty. to live, To dance!
Come here to dine: a cup of indecision
a portion of scrupulous quiet confusion

for to lift an ounce of bitterish habitual indomitable
Despair into simple steeping sordid
Joy! ...Yet I say "Away!"
Away to the deceptive charming inventive

subtleties. that separate you from me. from him.
It fashions and indicates, this chasmic abyss,
the Actor and the Poet.
The actor and The poet.

Come here. Come toward me. Where is my embrace?
Where is my beauty?
a grief to serve every dreaded ounce of what
cannot be but fear,

does it speak, this hope? or to feign,
to accost, to become some dashing dreaded
Accoutrement, or unending desire,
which is to Fathom forevermore?

Rhythm, Color, & Rhyme

2006-04-09T16:50:00.000-07:00

There were pots and pans, a few crates strategically positioned, here a metal tin can, there an ordinary plastic bucket. I watched as he set them up, watched his quick rimshots and adjustments, watched his fills, then watched him shift around his set with intention and method. It was soothing standing there, just barely hidden by a concrete barrier on which was bolted the handrails of the stairs emerging from below. I had just delivered my mail to the post office.

I had just emerged from a line. Have you ever been in a long, long line and been entertained by the oddities and particulars of others, confused and intrigued by their ways of preparing this and expressing that? I was shocked as the fellow behind me cursed to himself with a peculiar tone of anger, laced with a sort of cynical disregard for not just the length of the line, but for the presence of other people around him. Something of it smacked of the sort of peculiarity that you don't just find offensive, but interesting beyond all interests. I shuffled backward a step, ever-so-slightly, just enough to hear his words more clearly but not quite enough to upset him. Apparently, though, it did upset him when one of the two ladies behind him, as she jabbered away, a bit muddled herself, accidentally stepped sideways into his shoulder just enough to earn a hearty bellow and a quick shake from the poor, irritable fellow.

This is the point at which I began to spasm out some short, constrained giggles, turning ever-so-carefully to catch a glimpse of the scene. It had not occurred to me that, in so doing, I would begin to hear with greater clarity the varied tones and utterances throughout the entire length of the line. I began to take in one of the most colorful, entrancing, and entertaining scenes of interpersonal encounters I have ever witnessed. I spun around even further to look straight-faced into the cynical chap behind me, smiled from ear to ear, said 'hello there,' and realized that I was witnessing a field trip of one of the local inpatient shelters for the mentally-troubled. I have never felt so comfortable waiting for so long to send my posts. Oliver Sacks and I are both so deeply fascinated by the truthfulness of the reality of the 'disturbed.' There is something so lacking in both pretention and modesty that we could glory in if only our veil could be lifted.

And so I just had to stand there, in the shadows, so satisfied in a task well done, and so moved by the colorful foreground of a Jamaican street musician against the grayish composites of a seemingly dreary April sky. The beats were at once sullen and tranquil, full of repose. His eyes beamed joy. And that is when I heard the soundtrack of this organic day of rhythm, color, and rhyme. "Don't worry (boom, boom), about a thing (boom, boom, boom) CAUSE EVERY LITTLE THING (boom) is GONNA BE ALRIGHT..."

As I walked north on University Way, I could feel the cool breeze and see the beginning movements of a springtime long-forgotten, as when Aslan employed the Deep Magic to reverse the evils of a Winter that was never Christmas. It had been some time since I had breathed in the warm vapors of Indian curry alongside Thai spice and homemade teriyaki masterpieces like seared salmon fillet with cucumber dressing. It had been an extended wait, filled with longing and many hopes for return, since I had looked along the fountain alley toward that great 'Mount which one can only see with Spring's eyes. And that is where the cherry blossoms grow full with shape and color and scent, like their homeland.

A young homeless couple sat distracted in a card game and conversation with their cardboard sign that indicated a tragedy meant to encourage personal donations, successfully meant to make me smerk: "Ninjas killed my parents."

An acapella singer stomped and clapped along my way. He was stamping out his weariness and belting out for hope, oppressed. "Lean on me (bomp) when you're not stro-hong (uh!) and I'll be your friend (YEAH) I'll help you carry oooonnnn (clap)..." You know, there's something inside that feels foundationally pathetic when, in the midst of pure healing, when you can feel the pains warming into tingles and the cold silence welling into innermost peace, when you actually begin to sing a new tune, you keep walking, walking by him and his pain and his harmonies and his oppression...and not even saying 'hello.'

Upon the invitation of the white-lit icon of the pedestrian, I almost stepped into the open crosswalk, but I halted just long enough for a large Ram truck to leap over the intersection, scraping a bundle of metal bars that were his cargo onto the hill of his ascendence, right where my foot was about to step. The guy next to me turned toward me, and we laughed together at what seemed like the pure comedy of a nervous encounter with death.

And I smiled and walked with him across the walk, back to work, back to joy, back home.

Identity Development in Early Adolescence

2006-04-08T09:11:00.000-07:00

One of my chief interests, the interest that holds together my broader sense of calling to ministry, counseling, and academia, is identity development. Dr. Lynn New was instrumental in planting this seed of understanding and interest in me, a soil predisposed to such a vocational area, given my unique and varied collection of personality traits and social contexts. I believe that there is a measure of Providential will in my stumblings over brilliant writers like James Fowler, Frederich Beuchner, C.S. Lewis, Erich Fromm, M. Scott Peck, Kahlil Gibran, Carl Rogers, Lesslie Newbigin, Ernest Becker, Victor Frankl, and G.K. Chesterton, each who have their own way of ascribing meaning to identity development, calling, and vocation, each who have offered me a certain indispensable lens for which to interpret life and the process of becoming more and more mature in this world.

We're each children of God searching for our own way, our own selves, our own purposes, our own journeys; and, part and parcel to the maturation of a self is the commitment to love and serve others. We have each seen glimpses of the face of God; yet, we are also each still babes, wondering if our Parent any longer exists, since the glimpse has faded and most of what we see are just the Hands of something greater that we can't explain...at work, yes, but hiding behind themselves. "Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief." So, in faith, in mind, in heart, in the relational, we develop toward something awaiting beyond ourselves, and part of how we get there is by taking others with us.

And I am fortunate and energized by opportunities to assist real people in this way: parents who are distraught or disoriented; peers who covet the experience of home or relationship or calling; and, most of all, children and adolescents whose identities are just beginning to bud. They remain at the brink of something both excruciating and enchanting, waiting and longing for the encouragement and empowerment to emerge. They are us, back then. They are the questions and confusions and longings that we barely remember, yet that are still central to who we are. They are the sages and gurus and princes for our children and our children's children. And, whether we are sages or gurus or princes, we are called to the service of their mentorship, by which we may actually resolve some of our own unconscious neuroses, our emotional bag, the insecurities and restlessness that impede our metamorphosis to the next stage of development. Maturity is ongoing; you may be mature for yesterday but childish for tomorrow. C.S. Lewis once said something to this effect: "I finally began to 'put away childish things,' as I was taught in Scripture, when I began to put away the childish desire to be something more than a child." Being ourselves is, ultimately, so basic and elemental.

My Life, with Room

2006-04-01T06:10:00.000-08:00

I just finished a nice homemade vanilla latte drank in one of my old blue mugs with a painting of ducks on it. I've had the two of those mugs since going to college when my parents passed them onto me. They drank their coffee out of them for years before that. It's a rainy day. The clouds are thick and frothy, without any air-pockets, solid grayish white, like the exquisite foam atop my espresso. It's taken some practice, but I've gotten better and better at steaming milk and creating beautiful foam from our little countertop Barista machine. Karla would have been proud of my foam this morning.

I took her to work about five o'clock this morning after waking up just after four. Her shift at the ghetto 'Bucks actually started at five-fifteen; she was adamant about being on time. It was nice to be out for a drive so early; I doubt I'd be writing that if I had gotten less sleep, but, after a very pleasant dinner of grilled chicken jack quesadillas with fresh cilantro, some of that Cholula chile sauce that Jason and Christy gave us awhile back, alongside a cold bottle of Dos Equis with a short squeeze of 'Real Lime'... well, it was good to eat well, watch three episodes from a borrowed Friends DVD with my wife, and be clean and tucked in by nine-thirty.

It's quiet now, except for the rhythmic trickles of precipitation and steady breathing of plane engines, various mechanistic contraptions in the not-so-distant outdoors, keeping our world running smoothly, and the occasional grunt, grinding, and groaning of a speedy morning commuter or some random motorcyclist, who shouldn't be driving on slick roads in the cold rain at six-twenty-three in the morning.

My simple salt and peppered omelette paired well with my coffee. I almost just went back to sleep after getting back to our apartment, but my stomach was restless for protein and the dense caramelly sweetness of a bold Verona espresso enveloped in velvety white cream with just a touch of vanilla.

A couple of evenings ago we had some excellent decaf drip coffee with thick half-and-half cream alongside homemade creme brulee in little white ramkins over at a friend's house; in fact, she is one of my fellow staff members and directs the Special Needs ministry at the church. We finally met the lady who she lives with, who actually owns the home. When I saw Blue Like Jazz on the shelf and asked who read it, I hardly expected a woman of her age to be the one to answer, but it made tremendous and exciting sense when I realized that her son was a close friend of Donald Miller and that she had even spent Thanksgiving in the new home he was finally able to purchase with the profits of his books. She went on to share with us about his kitchen's new coat of paint that he so proudly showed off and how she had just spoken with him Saturday by phone and that he is up in Alaska spending some time writing and thinking.

I am constantly reminded how blessed I am to be here now and have the opportunity to cultivate meaningful relationships with so many amazing and exceptional people. As in every real place, life here is not ecstatic or surreal as some imagine of others grandiose dreams come true. Not that it can't be that way; it certainly was for me for a number of months after moving here for graduate school, and I will always remember the walk in the clouds that was my new-found friendship and eventual engagement with Karla. But life balances itself out, and, in faith, we find that this life, with all its coffee and rain and relationship, is, in fact, quite enchanted. The enchantment is real, and it is true. The enchantment is in the marrow; so many experience disappointment because they only ever spend their time considering the enamel of the bone, not realizing the floods of life flowing beneath the surface.

One of my larger-than-life heroes spent some time at Tully's over a robust cup of joe drip with cinammon with me a couple of weeks ago, and I asked him so many questions about his early life spent at the base of Mount Shasta in California and his interests and involvement with the C.S. Lewis Foundation, including his stories around being one of the original investors in the restoration project of The Kilns in Oxford. He ended up showing me, to my great delight, one of his most glorious treasures, a copy of Critique of Pure Reason by Immanual Kant owned and read and marked all through by Jack himself, who, in pencil, modestly sketched his name on the first white page inside the cover, "c.s. lewis."

And I always enjoy spending time with my favorite Greek Orthodox priest / Greenlake psychotherapist / adjunct professor in marriage and family therapy. As on a previous occasion over two years ago, we met for conversation at the Greenlake Starbucks, only a block from his gem of a psychotherapy office, where he has been in private practice for seventeen years. As I am preparing to launch into a private psychotherapy practice myself, part-time, beginning in the Fall, we were able to talk a bit about logistics and rates and vision and calling. One of his very first questions to me, after a brief cell phone conversation in Greek, was, "How is your faith?" So simple and direct, it required skipping over pretention or mere 'small' talk; the conversation, as always, was deep with truth and authenticity and relationship.

Sitting here with an empty mug, preparing myself for a half-day of helping a new friend, also a fellow staff member, move across town into a new home, I think of the dreams that are being fulfilled. This afternoon, I will have the opportunity to view the interior of a home in our wonderful Maple Leaf neighborhood where we are considering buying into the real estate market for the first time, a young rookie couple launching into a bigger life, an ever-expanding vision, dreams yet considered. This is my life. Gritty and dry when my stubbornness or spiritual myopia cloud that which is sacred; beautiful with flavor in the cool crisp air of morning. G'day friends.

Words, Words, Words!

2006-02-21T17:25:00.000-08:00

Walking to my bus stop today, where I would enter onto the 66 Metro route home, I passed an interesting band of twenty-somethings heralding their political king, Lyndon H. LaRouche, Jr. I stopped and listened, interested.

As I stood for a moment, gazing into their rhetoric and zeal with a curious ear, I considered my need to hurry if I was still to make a stop at the nearest Hair Masters for a quick trim. After all, I have been feeling quite under the weather, which is the reason I left the church a couple of hours early in the first place.

"Hey there! Do you know what the difference is between Harry Whittington and Monica Lewinski???"

"Well... no, I don't suppose I do," I smirked with a guilty anticipation.

The perverse bit of wit made a convenient segueway into a well-rehearsed spiel about economic destruction, fascism, FDR and The New Deal, the Promethean principle, Aristotle's conception of power, and the evils of the capital-driven economic edifice of the Western world versus the hope of creative progress through the re-animation of the world's economy via the Vernadsky Remedy and a sufficient application of the deep learnings we find in classical Greek tragedy such as Julius Caesar.

After being handed a (free) pamphlet (that requested a "suggested donation of $5.00"), I shared a bit about my work with elementary children at the Presbyterian church just a block away. The conversation turned here toward Fritjof Capra, there toward Paul Tillich and his psychologist friend Rollo May, and I was asked to take a book entitled, Earth's Next Fifty Years by their political hero, Lyndon LaRouche.

"No thanks. I better not. You need to be able to sell those." (The book's cover requested a $20.00 contribution.)

"It says 'suggested contribution.' If you're not able to contribute, at least we're dispersing these ideas. If you can read Tillich, you should be able to handle this..."

I will have you know that, despite the appeal of many of their spoken words (with the exception of the unnecessarily crude and misleading propoganda that serves as their conversational 'hook'), I am now officially ready to sit on the couch and watch some Olympic action rather than continuing to read about how "This physiocratic delusion, of Quesnay, Turgot, and the Adam Smith who plagarized them both, is the underlying assumption of both current fads of 'environmentalism,' globalization, and virtual slave-labor practices of the IMF/World Bank dominated international monetary-financial system today" and how "The present world crisis, is principally an outgrowth of the manipulations of the systemic relations among the world's nations as a whole, chiefly through the control exerted by the mechanisms of Liberalism currently axiomatically hegemonic among the components that predatory financier-oligarchical imperium which reigns today."

I appreciated their intentions against oppression and toward humanitarian progress, but I will leave such campaigns to the likes of them and the proverbial Aaron O'Kelley's of their world. Have it out fellas, and I'll be sure to benefit from your struggles and your words.

I am tired, politically unsavvy, and require green tea and the clarity of Lewis' "weight of glory" to heal me of the heaviness of both confusion and an untimely interest in some new-fangled doctrine of liberation. Karla will be home to keep my company in less than two hours. In the meantime, curling anyone?

Poetry Challenge

2006-02-18T15:56:00.000-08:00

Fellas and gentlewomen, I would like to make a challenge to you. Try to write some random poetry, for me. I don't know anything about poetry myself. I do know that most poetry that rhymes sucks pretty bad unless it's written by an absolute genius, and we have left most of those to rot in our old literature textbooks rather than appreciating the beauty of their words.

Nonetheless, poetry is worth taking a stab at. Some of you may have wondered why I write any poetry, on the one hand, and, also, why I post it. I'm not sure other than just for the fun of it, to see if I can write anything interesting or cool or with some sort of beauty. Most of the time I fail miserably, but I am comforted by knowing that C.S. Lewis wrote some poetry and was mocked and jeered for it, because it pretty much sucked. And so I am okay with writing sucky poetry because he did.

So write something with me. All I do is take something random that I was just thinking about or reading about, generally with one central experience or theme in mind, and I just begin typing it out. I generally don't spend more than two to five minutes on a poem. I usually don't go back and correct anything except for grammar or spelling errors before posting it. It's just a silly way of practicing writing something.

Here, I'll take a stab at writing something that rhymes even though I know it'll sound cheesy. I was just reading a bit of Till We Have Faces, where, at the end, Orual talks about how the Fox taught them about the inadequacy of words on this earth as opposed to how they'll become meaningful beyond our present understandings in Heaven... I'll go with that:

Till it can be spoken
It shall be just a seed
And within us
Will grow
To choke out every weed

The destiny within
Every jot, every tittle
Lays within the womb
Of our soul
Brittle

On the heavenly beams
Where we’ll lay, and we’ll run
And our faces will gaze
And become
Like the sun

And the Lord will then speak
The deep words that have kept
Until now in a chest
Where the key was long hidden
And the gatekeeper slept

The time will then come
And the words we have stuttered
Will become art and great joy
And be spoken over and over
And Grace be finally, completely, uttered

So there is my challenge. I just wrote that in well under five minutes. Anyone else want to be vulnerable and give it a try?

Letter to the Pastor of My Youth

2006-02-18T11:57:00.000-08:00

Bro. Joe Srygley of First Baptist Church in Atlanta, Texas, where I grew up, will be honored tomorrow for thirty years of pastoral leadership at FBC Atlanta. A number of individuals who have called him pastor, especially those who have gone on to full-time ministry, have been asked to write him a letter to be included in an anthology of letters that he will receive tomorrow. The following is simply my letter to him:

Dear Bro. Joe,

I am writing to you from a desk in my Seattle apartment, gazing out of the window at thousands of homes scattered across hills and valleys, trails of chimney smoke on this cold wintry day, and a few crows chasing each other across rooftops. I am struck by the beauty of the city skyline, the Space Needle, Greenlake, and the magnificent mountaintops. It is here that I have found something far beyond what I could have imagined, a height to look out at the wonders of God around me and a depth to recognize the responsibility I have in speaking truth to the lost, tending well to what God has placed me over, and enjoying the beauty of God’s Creation in this community that I now call my home.

As I sit and gaze and write, I am thinking of you, your life and ministry, the first inklings of your calling, and the retrospective meaning-making that comes at such a time as this. I wonder what it must be like for you, gazing back, and what it must have been like when you were where I now am, gazing forward. I am writing as a celebration of what is just one of many significant milestones in a long life of faith and ministry in the service of Christ. It is not the end of your road by any measure, and, in some ways, in may provide fresh beginnings to what you’re already doing. I hope that God will bless you in this time of honor and remembrance.

I’m also writing as a way of remembering who you have been to me, as you will always be, the pastor of my youth. In all the many ways that you have influenced me, in fact pastored me, I wonder what paths I might have chosen were you not in my life. And I realize that you can probably have very little understanding of the breadth and depth of the ways that your preaching and friendship actually guided me through such critical years of my faith development.

I was born into the Atlanta community and the fellowship of First Baptist Church, and I have fond memories of attending three-year-old preschool in Mrs. Poole’s class. We moved to Carthage at the end of that year and did not move back until I was entering the fourth-grade. Our first year back, we attended First United Methodist Church, as we had attended the FUMC in Carthage. My Dad grew up Methodist, and those were the few years that we, as a family, gave it a try. In fifth-grade I was back at First Baptist Church and in for what would serve to be some of the most formative years of my life.

It was in fifth-grade that I became a pew-warmer on Sunday mornings under your preaching. I remember, above all else, one important message that kept ringing in my ears, “God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life.” It was always a theme weaved into your preaching, a fabric of grace that, first, offered me spiritual eyes to see that God was not just a theological abstraction but our Lord, present and real, and, second, initiated in me the hope and faith to know that, beyond the fact that God was good, that He loved me.

When it struck me that God was real and that He loved me and desired relationship with me, I was in a position where I could do no other but to call out to Him in faith. And, in fifth-grade, I kneeled beside my bed one night and prayed that God would forgive me of my sins against Him and cleanse me of all unrighteousness. I prayed for grace. Shortly after, I descended our stairs to tell my Mom what I had just done.

I can’t remember exactly how many times I met with you or what the interactions might have been like, but I do remember that during the next week I had the opportunity to sit and talk with you about my decision to follow Christ. I think it must be difficult, from a pastor’s perspective, to comprehend the well of emotion and spiritual heartiness that can actually lie beneath the surface of some quiet, shy kid who comes forward with such a profession of faith. But, to that child, the moment may be so chock full of meaning and destiny that his entire vocational life may be set on course by that initial experience of pastoral leadership.

This is because, in those first moments together of face to face conversation and insight, you became embedded in my consciousness as an image of grace. You shepherded me through that narrow gate. And you became, in those short but meaningful conversations the week before my baptism, something more than just an abstraction yourself. You knew me, you loved me, and you were offering to guide me as I crawled through a door that, once I was through it, became larger than life to me. Something about your pastoral guidance allowed me to lean confidently into you, and you, in the moment of allowing my fall underneath the surface of the water, were the flesh and blood that brought me out again. You were the face of Christ to me.

As we mature in faith, we can begin to lean into Christ Himself in real and meaningful ways. We begin to pray to the image of the invisible God in moments of joy and in moments of grief. We call out to our Lord in moments of solitude for no other reason than to be obedient to His calling on us to follow, so that as we move forward, we can trust that He is truly guiding us. There are times when we feel alone, and we can look back to recognize the abundance of God’s grace infused in every bit of marrow that this life offers. We come to appreciate the fact that “He works all things together for the good of those that love Him and are called according to His purposes.” But we needed a pastor to guide us there.

In the years that would follow, I would lead Bible studies for the youth group and on Thursday mornings before school, play guitar and sing in a rock band about the goodness of Christ, lead worship at a number of venues, become a leader among friends and peers in the church and the community; and, at some point, I began to look around for more guidance. I fixed my eyes on Max Fruge, Dale Perkins, Wes Chambers, and a number of other men and women to help me understand and articulate my faith. I walked alongside Aaron O’Kelley, Robert Butler, Tom Tomberlain, and others, as we began to stand strong and seek God’s hand of guidance to show us the way.

On September 14th, 1996, I came forward after speaking briefly with you and Bro. Wes with a decision to surrender myself to vocational ministry. I was only a sophomore in high school, but I had the courage to make this decision that seemed so clear to me public largely because Aaron had already publicly made his decision to do the same. Later, on October 4th, 1998, you presented Aaron and I both, on the same day, formal licenses as Christian ministers. We were only in the Fall semester of our senior year of high school.

Rewind a bit, and I find myself in my Freshman year of high school. It was the summer before that year that my brother had made a significant life-changing decision to follow Christ in a way that he had never followed before. It was, perhaps, the most significant point of repentance that he has ever experienced in his life. And, in that year, his leadership among peers had encouraged a number of others, Tom Tomberlain, David Smith, Clay May, James Piazza, and others, to make life-altering commitments to Christ and even into ministry.

And I remember at some point, probably in my sophomore year, hearing Tom Tomberlain say to some friends that he had been coming in to meet with you about once a week to talk about questions of faith and to pray with you. I remember shyly inquiring with him, “You do?” I expressed enough interest to have Tom say, “Yeah, you should come with me next week. I’m sure he won’t mind, and it’s really cool.” Something of that communication excited me at the idea that I could know you better than just the preacher at the podium or even just the pastor who had once led me to Christ. It was another turning point: I did come in to see you with Tom, and though we didn’t cover any great theological ground to speak of, I became, in that brief encounter in your office, more than just a name. You began calling out to me in the halls, “Hi Blake!” And it made all the difference in the world.

Over the course of time, I came to see you more and more, sometimes with Aaron, sometimes with Robert, sometimes alone. Once I had a vehicle of my own, I would even drop by fairly regularly either during or at the end of the school-day, especially my junior and senior year. I remember the tremendous satisfaction of dropping by to ask if I could see you. Kathy would call into you by phone to let you know I was there to see you, and, no more quickly than she had hung up the phone, you would open your door and have me “Come on in!” Sometimes this would be during your study hours when you were not to be disturbed. Somehow, on occasion, I would get special privileges to see you. Sometimes, if you were busy, I would walk around the church and visit with everyone else I crossed paths with, and, at some point, I’d be making my way back toward your office, you’d come around a corner and say, “Well, hey there Blake, I didn’t expect to see you there… Do you have a second? Come on in!”

I’m not sure what was going through your head during those times, if you knew I would want to talk with you, if, at times, you felt on edge that you had so many things to do but so very little time to do them, or if you genuinely were excited to see and talk with me, but, either way, I never knew the difference. If it was lunchtime and you had not yet eaten, you would seem in no rush to get away. If you had visits to make or studying to do, I never felt pushed out the door. And, on occasion, if Lea Etta called during our talk to ask you about lunch, you would hold the mouthpiece, ask me if I wanted to come over, and then proceed to let her know you’d be bringing me.

Of all the things I could say about your preaching and pastoral leadership at First Baptist Atlanta over the course of my lifetime, one thing has mattered most to me: that you have known me, you have called me by name, you have spoken the truth, not just from the podium, but from the shallow waters of the Mountain Fork river in Broken Bow, as we camped and fished for trout together. You let me into your world, you introduced me to your family, you watched movies with me, you had me over to spend the night, you took me camping, just the two of us, two hours away in another state, you prayed not just for me but with me. Over the course of time, you became to me not just a distant figure, and then not just a pastoral guide, but a mentor and a friend.

I am proud of this landmark anniversary that is a testament to the fiery courage and ambition that has led you to preach the Gospel amidst trial and turmoil and grief as well as joy and unity and celebration all these years. You are petros, a rock, sturdy, unwavering, consistent, trustworthy, safe, and Christlike. And, you are the embodiment of grace. You have taught me enough about sin to know that sin is real and that it corrupts our relationship with God and our purposes in the world; and, you taught me enough about grace to know that “we all sin and fall short of the glory of God,” yet that “God’s grace is sufficient for us.” That despite my sin, I need have no fear in life or death, knowing that Christ loves me through my darkest valleys and that He calls me to love others just the same.

You have been, perhaps, the most significant spiritual guide in my life thus far. Even if I’ve forgotten much of what you have spoken from the pulpit, I could never forget the images and gestures and symbols of meaning and relationship and compassion and genuine interest and laughing so hard that we had to take a few moments just to laugh.

I’ll never forget that during my first ministry position as youth-minister over at Pruitt Lake Baptist Church in Avinger, when I got docked $50.00 out of my weekly paycheck of $100.00 for every little stupid reason they could come up with to dock me, you and Bro. Wes just laughed so hard when I came back and told you that you almost cried. You shared with me your first experiences in ministry, and we all had a big laugh at the sometimes ridiculous ironies in church ministry. And remember when we brought Aaron along on a trip to Broken Bow, when he, a youth minister, kept jokingly saying how much he hated youth ministry? If anyone from the church would have overheard some of our conversations, they would have thought we were being blasphemous or that you had been drinking some of that Native American river water, but, nope, we were just having fun.

Remember when I’d stop in from ETBU to share with you about the wonder and attraction of my latest romance? As seriously and pastorally as you could have, you would share with me about the nature of love and affection, the ins and outs of your own experiences with love, and offer gentle guidance and humble insights. And then we would pray. Now, of course, you just laugh really hard at all the times I cried wolf when I thought I had met the love of my life, but, hey, that’s what friends are for.

Since all that has transpired with me going off to college, then to graduate school, and then marrying Karla, to finding a life here that feels wonderfully like home and a job that is more like a vocation, our time together has diminished and mostly faded into memory. I remember a long phone conversation, not so long ago, as I walked around a cemetery near the church in Wimberley, telling you all about my recent experiences in ministry and my great hope to return to Seattle and find a position of some kind that would fulfill me and provide for our living expenses. You teased me that Karla had stolen your fishing buddy, and we still haven’t made up for the last few times that we’ve planned to make a trip to Broken Bow but haven’t.

I hope to call you sometime soon after the pomp and circumstance of the celebration for you at the church has passed to catch up and reacquaint ourselves with the nuances of our ever-changing lives. You, being a grandfather as well as a wise old (face it) elder in the Church still have ground to cover, relationships to build, ministering to do. If I could offer you anything right now in this brief time of honor, it would be the recognition of how much you mean to me and how greatly I appreciate getting to be just one of many who will ever stand so proudly in the great shadow that you cast.

Sincerely,

Blake Edwards

The Final Draft

2006-02-10T21:46:00.000-08:00

Okay, it's down to 461 carefully chosen words, and I just checked 'his,' and it was, in fact, 464 words, so I sent went ahead and sent it back to the Citizen's Journal. I am told that I should expect it to be printed on Monday. Myles, get excited: You're about to be quoted in the Citizen's Journal of Atlanta, Texas. Here it is:

Attention: Debbie Melton, Citizen’s Journal, Atlanta, Texas.
Subject: In Response to a “Letter to the Editor” from (you'll have to buy a paper if you want to know).

Dear Editor,

There are some Atlanta citizens contending that those who supported Ellen DeGeneres’ recent reunion show gave credence to her homosexual lifestyle. Some statements on the issue have even implied that accepting the digital message board was a morally reprehensible act. I am writing in disagreement of this perspective.

The Christian Scriptures do uphold a very clear measure of “values and principles.” A number of sins, or acts of immorality, are made clear in the Bible: homosexuality, lying, divorce, idolatry, stealing, coveting, greed, adultery, lust, and drunkenness, only to name a few. The sins of humanity are so all-encompassing that we find in the Apostle Paul’s Letter to the Romans that, in fact, “All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God” (3:23). Clearly, given this, Ellen, by way of her homosexuality, is a sinner indeed.

Am I any less so? Are you? We are each spiritually bankrupt; Paul reminds us in Romans that “there is no one who is righteous… All have turned away from God; they have all gone wrong; no one does what is right, not even one” (3:10-12). There is no question, from a Christian perspective, of our guilt, the guilt of us all, in the face of Almighty God. Of course, none who stand in judgment over Ellen would claim to be without sin. Yet, why do they find it their responsibility to judge? Did not Jesus Christ Himself say, “Do not judge others, and God will not judge you; do not condemn others, and God will not condemn you; forgive others, and God will forgive you?” (Luke 6:37).

Do we distance ourselves from the divorced, the greedy, the lustful, the prideful? (We only find Jesus distancing himself from the judgmental.) I’m afraid that some have concluded from Paul’s command, “Do not conform yourselves to the standards of this world” (Romans 12:2) that we, as well, should not cultivate meaningful relationships with those who do conform to the world’s standards. It is not so; at least insomuch as I understand the gospel of Christ. In the words of a friend, “If this is biblical Christianity, to be appalled at the presence of sinners, spare us all the slow, painful death of gazing in the mirror.”

I am proud of the individuals who, rather than rejecting Ellen’s invitation out of spitefulness for her lifestyle, chose to embrace their history with her as friends and classmates and celebrate such a meaningful occasion as their thirtieth high school reunion, despite the naysayers who would judge them for it. And, I am thankful to her for such a useful and generous gift.

Sincerely,

Blake G. Edwards

Letters to the Editor

2006-02-10T06:00:00.000-08:00

In reaction to the recent thirty-year high school reunion celebrated on The Ellen Show, one individual in my hometown (with whom I have a long history and a very good relationship) has written a condemning sort of letter, which has been distributed across the town. It is written to the Editor of our local paper but has not yet been published. It follows:

Letter to the Editor.

This is in regard to the recent pronouncement of February 6, 2006, as Ellen DeGeneres Day.

I am shocked and ashamed that the beautiful town of Atlanta, Texas would sell it’s very soul for a fleeting moment of fame and fortune, a little glitz and glory. On the heels of a recent monumental, overwhelming vote banning gay and lesbian marriage in our state, we have chosen to set aside a special day giving credence to this lecherous lifestyle. Why, she must be laughing and slapping the backs of her lesbian and gay companions at the naiveté of our people.

Many of our youth were appalled at the designation and have called, emailed, and written me notes as to their disdain towards this decision. In a time when youth are looking for role models, surely the leadership can find a better example to set before them. They are confused as to the moral standing and moral direction of our community. I fear we have allowed a Trojan Horse to silently slip into our community and it is now eroding and decaying us from the inside out.

It is also my understanding that Ms. DeGeneres has donated a sign to our school, which will be placed in a prominent spot for all to see and be reminded of her generosity to the community. I hope it will cause a sickening in the pits of our stomachs as we realize it will be a constant reminder to our students and adults of our giving up what should be most cherished, our moral integrity, to show support and acceptance of her lifestyle.

It has also come to my attention that the DeGeneres show was played in some of our school classrooms during school hours. We have removed the Ten Commandments, prayer, and Bibles from schools all across America and have been told that we could no longer discuss Biblical values or principles. Now those values and principles are being replaced with this wretched programming…programming which is molding the minds and souls of our youth. I do not pay my taxes for this type of teaching to take place for my child and I am sure there are others that feel just as strongly. How can this standard be taught when the church’s standard cannot?

Perhaps I am a lone prophet crying in the wilderness, but I think not. I say to you as the old fable said, the King is not wearing any clothes. Someone has to stand and speak the truth. It is time for us to wake up, join together, combine our hands, our hearts, our mouths, and our votes to say, this no longer can be the State of Atlanta, nor the State of the Union.

Respectfully Submitted,

(I will leave his name anonymous)

In response to this letter, I have just submitted an opposing letter that expresses my very different opinion about the matter being discussed. It follows:

Attention: (Anonymous Newspaper), (Smalltown), Texas and all concerned with this issue.
Subject: In Response to a “Letter to the Editor” from (Anonymous Person).

Dear Editor,

A letter has been submitted to your office concerning the designation of February 6, 2006, as Ellen DeGeneres Day and the related televised reunion of Atlanta’s Class of 1976 on her show. I have read the letter and have some objections. It has also come to my attention that a small handful of individuals have begun to make public statements in the few venues that Atlanta has to offer (e.g. a youth group gathering), implying that Ellen’s sixty-six former classmates who attended her televised high school reunion, in doing so, were “[selling] their soul for a fleeting moment of fame and fortune, a little glitz and glory” (this, a quote from the initial “Letter to the Editor”). I am writing in response to these statements with a different perspective, and, if you choose to publish statements, in the days ahead, that would support the perspective of the aforementioned individuals, I would ask that you consider also publishing statements that reflect the opposing point-of-view.

The issue at hand boils down to this: Some have concluded that attending Ellen’s reunion show was wrong in that it, at least indirectly, supported certain political initiatives that give credence to a homosexual lifestyle, while others have concluded that attending Ellen’s show in no way supported homosexuality or such initiatives. The first group have gone even further to conclude that accepting Ellen’s gift, a new electronic message board to be placed in front of the high school, was a morally reprehensible act that “showed support and acceptance for her lifestyle.” The latter group, myself included, has contended that, in fact, attending the reunion and accepting the sign were not only amoral actions (meaning: without moral value), but they were arguably, from one Christian perspective, beautiful and redemptive (morally mature).

It must be made clear that the statements made in the initial “letter to the Editor” were made not from a political platform, but a religious platform. Not only that, but they purport, by their tone and verbiage, to defend the gospel of Jesus Christ. In response, I would like to offer some reasons why I strongly feel that the statements made in the letter did not reflect or benefit the gospel of Jesus Christ.

The author of the letter sought to uphold “Biblical values and principles.” To fully appreciate the breadth and depth of the Christian Bible’s “values and principles,” one must be willing to appreciate the movement of the Biblical narrative toward redemption through the person of Jesus Christ. The Christian Scriptures uphold the Jewish law codes which make clear the scope of morality, giving us a clear set of “values and principles.” A number of sins, or acts of immorality, are made clear in the Bible: homosexuality, lying, divorce, idolatry, stealing, coveting, greed, adultery, lust, and drunkenness, only to name a few. The sins of humanity are so many and so all-encompassing that we find in Paul’s Letter to the Romans that, in fact, “All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). Clearly, given this, Ellen, by way of her homosexuality, is a sinner indeed.

But the most curious thing of all is that, well, so am I. You may not know me, Editor, but I can be irritable at times. I have fudged the truth not just a few times. Believe it or not, I have even stolen a few times. I don’t even want to think about the ways that I have dishonored my mother and my father. And, well, let’s just be honest, some of my actions, not to mention my thoughts, have been so morally reprehensible over the course of my lifetime (even this week!) that I just don’t think I could go on to mention them here (what if you published them!?). And, let me make this clear: by writing this way, I don’t mean to give off the idea that sin is not that big of a deal. Not at all! In fact, I believe strongly that sin is very much a big deal. It is so big that it is an obstacle to me being all that God intended me to be. As a Christian, I believe that the weight of sin is so heavy that, consequently, it causes spiritual death, separation from God.

The Bible makes it clear that we are, each one, spiritually bankrupt, and Paul reminds us in his Letter to the Romans that “there is no one who is righteous, no one who is wise or who worships God. All have turned away from God; they have all gone wrong; no one does what is right, not even one” (Romans 3:10-12). Editor, there is no question, from the Christian perspective, of our guilt, the guilt of us all, in the face of Almighty God.

As I continue to read the narrative of Scripture, I learn that God became a human being (John 1:14), I learn that His coming did not abolish the Jewish law code (Matthew 5:17a) and, then, I learn the most wonderful, amazing, and important doctrine in all the Christian faith: that in becoming a man, God came to fulfill the law code in Himself (Matthew 5:17b). I learn that even though “everyone has sinned and is far away from God’s saving presence,” that “by the free gift of God’s grace all are put right with Him through Christ Jesus, who sets them free” (Romans 3:23-24). I learn that even though I am a sinner or even maybe “the worst of all,” as Paul put it, God’s mercy is abundant. (I Timothy 1).

But that is “neither here nor there” in regard to the statements from the initial letter of which I write. No one who upholds these condemning statements would claim that they are without sin. Yet, why do they find it their responsibility to judge? Did not Jesus Christ Himself say, “Do not judge others, and God will not judge you; do not condemn others, and God will not condemn you; forgive others, and God will forgive you?” (Luke 6:37). Why, we even go on to read from Jesus in chapter six of Luke,

"It’s easy to see a smudge on your neighbor’s face and be oblivious to the ugly sneer on your own. Do you have the nerve to say, ‘Let me wash your face for you,’ when your own face is distorted by contempt? It’s this I-know-better-than-you mentality again, playing a holier-than-thou part instead of just living your own part. Wipe that ugly sneer off your own face and you might be fit to offer a washcloth to your neighbor" (Luke 6:41-42).

I have noticed two very important things about Jesus in the stories of Scripture. The first is this: that the vast majority of His closest friends were not religious. They were not careful followers of a religious law code; they did not concern themselves with guilting others into redemption (as if you can!) or taking on the role of ‘arbiter’ when it came to sin and judgment. He hung out with a filthy prostitute or two, a corrupt tax collector, a few dirty poor fishermen, alcoholics (‘wine-bibbers’), and a great assortment of ragamuffins who had nothing to do with the ‘righteous’ or ‘churchy’ types. It should also be noted that He did not just befriend these ‘ragamuffins’ so that He could teach them about how wrong and sinful they were and how they should get their lives together. It’s not that He did not see their sin but that He understood the only true Way of redemption: His great love, which even took Him to death, by Roman execution, on a wooden cross. Jesus loved them, befriended them, graciously lived life with them, in their homes, in cultural gathering places reminiscent of modern-day bars, slept in their ditches and fished in their lakes.

The second thing I have noticed about Jesus was this: that we find that Jesus did not often keep company with the religious types at all. In fact, His greatest human opponents were the religious leaders of His day. He did not befriend them. He did not eat or drink with them. He did not spend time in their homes. He did not fish with them or stand silent in the face of their judgments. I could even imagine, as a young carpenter apprentice, His teenaged grimace at the request of some religiously stuck-up Scribe or hypocritical High Priest for a carpentered chair or bench. Perhaps I am taking too much liberty here, but I like to think that He might have fixed a leaky roof at the house of Matthew or Zaccheus, the two tax-collectors, or shown Mary Magdalene how to sand down the belly of a boat He was making for Andrew. He did not seem to be watching over His shoulders to make sure that His actions met with approval from the religious leaders. He did not seem to be concerned that the Pharisees might find out that one of His best friends was a prostitute.

Mike Yaconelli, in Messy Spirituality, wrote that “Nothing makes people in the church more angry than grace. It’s ironic: we stumble into a party we weren’t invited to and find the uninvited standing at the door making sure no other uninviteds get in. Then a strange phenomenon occurs: as soon as we are included in the party because of Jesus’ irresponsible love, we decide to make grace ‘more responsible’ by becoming self-appointed Kingdom Monitors, guarding the kingdom of God, keeping the riffraff out (which, as I understand it, are who the kingdom of God is supposed to include).”

It saddens me to know that someone whom I love so much as the author of the initial “Letter to the Editor” would take on such a tone of judgment and condemnation. It does not benefit our society, as he has contended, to reject fellowship with another because of their sin. My hunch is that he has committed what in Latin is referred to as a non sequitur (“it doesn’t follow”): he has concluded that the Apostle Paul’s command, “Do not conform yourselves to the standards of this world” (Romans 12:2), imply as well that we should not cultivate meaningful relationships with those who do conform to the world’s standards. It is not so. That is what I have learned from the life of Jesus.

Another prominent Christian author, Philip Yancey, speaks poignantly about the very issue of grace and homosexuality:

"For most of history, the church has overwhelmingly viewed homosexual behavior as a serious sin. Then the question becomes, ‘How do we treat sinners?’

I think of the changes that have occurred within the evangelical church in my lifetime over the issue of divorce, an issue on which Jesus is absolutely clear. Yet today a divorced person is not shunned, banned from churches, spit upon, screamed at. Even those who consider divorce a sin have come to accept the sinners and treat them with civility and even love. Other sins on which the Bible is also clear—greed, for example—seem to pose no barrier at all. We have learned to accept the person without approving of the behavior.

My study of Jesus’ life convinces me that whatever barriers we must overcome in treating ‘different’ people cannot compare to what a holy God—who dwelled in the Most Holy Place, and whose presence caused fire and smoke to belch from mountaintops, bringing death to any unclean person who wandered near—overcame when he descended to join us on planet Earth.

A prostitute, a wealthy exploiter, a demon-possessed woman, a Roman soldier, a Samaritan with running sores and another Samaritan with serial husbands—I marvel that Jesus gained the reputation as being a ‘friend of sinners’ like these. As Helmut Thielicke wrote: ‘Jesus gained the power to love harlots, bullies, and ruffians…he was able to do this only because he saw through the filth and crust of degeneration, because his eye caught the divine original which is hidden in every man—in every man!...First and foremost he gives us new eyes…When Jesus loved a guilt-laden person and helped him, he saw in him an erring child of God. He saw in him a human being whom his Father loved and grieved over because he was going wrong. He saw him as God originally designed and meant him to be, and therefore he saw through the surface layer of grime and dirt to the real man underneath. Jesus did not identify the person with his sin, but rather saw in this sin something alien, something that really did not belong to him, something that merely chained and mastered him and from which he would free him and bring him back to his real self. Jesus was able to love men because he loved them right through the layer of mud.’

We may be abominations, but we are still God’s pride and joy. All of us in the church need ‘grace-healed eyes’ to see the potential in others for the same grace that God has so lavishly bestowed on us. ‘To love person,’ said Dostoevsky, ‘means to see him as God intended him to be.’"

(P. Yancey, What’s So Amazing About Grace, pp. 174-175)

As I bring this rather lengthy letter to a close, I would like to conclude by saying how proud I am of the individuals who, rather than rejecting Ellen’s invitation out of spitefulness for her lifestyle, chose to embrace their history with her as friends and classmates, chose to come together with the common interest of reuniting friendships and acquaintances, and chose to celebrate such a meaningful occasion as their thirtieth high school reunion, despite the naysayers who would judge them for it. I would like to add how thankful I am that Ellen, despite her emotional and geographical distance from Atlanta, chose to embrace the opportunity for such an experience, despite any fear about whether or not they would love or judge her, attempted to engage in some authentic and vulnerable interactions with those from her past, and gave such a useful and needed gift to our high school.

Editor, I am concerned that a number of well-intentioned individuals seeking to represent “the Christian perspective” in Atlanta are not only misrepresenting a substantial number of Christians there in the town but are also committing a wildly disappointing disservice to all in their misrepresentation of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It is my contention that letters such as these should not be published in the town newspaper but that these issues should be hammered out in dialogue at the local church. However, since the first letter has reached the office of the Editor, I respectfully submit my perspective alongside it. Please consider either discarding the initial letter or likewise distributing letters like mine to everyone who has received the first. It is only fair that those who have heard one viewpoint through the proliferation of such a letter also hear the other viewpoint on the matter.

Sincerely,

Blake G. Edwards

Beer

2006-02-04T14:59:00.000-08:00

It was in Vail, Colorado, in late Winter of 2001. My first official beer. I was 19, almost 20. We walked into the cabin and, after looking about, Jeanne mentioned the assortment of refreshments we might want to enjoy. "There's some water, an old Sprite here, a Diet Coke there...my Dad's beer." "Hmmm," I thought. "Interesting."

"Can I have a beer?" "Sure!" It was a Fat Tire Ale. I sat on the couch and began to sip. Bitter. Hmmm. I confessed to Jeanne that it was my first, and she nearly fought me to take it back out of some forced sense of guilt. The Damoffs had brought me along on the trip (absent George), paid for everything, which was one of the most generous birthday gifts ever. I sat and enjoyed the beer, trying to finish out of the pure satisfaction of knowing it would officially be my first.

Oh, I had sips, slurps, and smells of my Dad's Coor's, Miller, and Budweiser in my early years... as in elementary school and maybe junior high. I was never really interested and had a strong faith conviction against it. It was meaningful and important that I kept my distance. I even remember going to one particular beer party in junior high, where I fearfully stole and poured out the beer of two friends that I cared about dearly. One, Simon, my cousin, had a heart defect at birth (an upside-down heart), was especially skinny, and was drinking his weight in some cheap beer. I carefully stole about three that were left in some plastic bag behind a door, went out back, and poured them all out. My hope was that it might prevent him from killing himself. Being the irresponsible teen he was being, he ended up puking up blood that night. But no worries, he's a minister to homeless and needy ragamuffins nowadays.

Then there was Rebecca. It was her house. She was one of my best friends, and she had a trunk in her closet in which she had a cleverly stashed collection of varied items, including assorted cigarettes which she had stolen one by one from her mother and assorted beers and wine coolers which she and Lindsey had stolen from their mothers. She was proud to show me her stash and, in particular, a bottle of Zima that she planned on drinking. She stood there smiling, and I took one look at it, grabbed it, and ran. And, I mean ran. She screamed at the top of her lungs at me, "Blake! Blake! Blake! I'm gonna kill you! Give it back! Don't do it! Don't do it!" She knew I wasn't proud of her interests in alcohol. I got away by going through the back yard, around the house, into the car garage, and hiding behind her mother's car. I heard Rebecca come out of the back for a brief moment yelling and then giving up. She went back inside.

I actually sat there for awhile pondering the situation, and, before you know it, I had popped the top off and taken a sip. That's right, I wasn't going to let it go completely to waste without educating myself in my friends' sinful pleasure. But one sip was all I needed or wanted. I poured the rest out in the yard, took the bottle to a trash can, and headed back inside. At some point in the night, I stood outside with Will, who I didn't know as well as I would have liked, and he told me how he was impressed that I was not drinking anything and that he would like to get to know me further. It was one of my proudest moments...although we never got to know each other as well as I would have liked.

Since my experiences in elementary school, junior high, and as a 19 yr. old (almost 20), I have had more experiences with beer. That summer after the trip to Vail, I moved to Waco and lived with my brother and some friends. I learned to appreciate a small glass of Merlot with spaghetti, lasagne, and other pasta dishes, and I had the opportunity to take sips of a variety of Daniel's beers. Daniel also let me listen to a lot of Weezer, Lifehouse, and Coldplay that summer; Coldplay is now probably my favorite band.

But it wasn't until I was 21 that two important things had happened: (1) I had experienced a disconnect from the anxiety-ridden religious convictions that had prevented me from enjoying a beverage with fermented hops, wheat, barley, or grapes; (2) I was finally at that legal juncture when I could feel the freedom from any guilt stemming from my respect for the law and my fear of somehow being mysteriously 'found out' by either my Baptist brethren or the legal authorities. So, particularly after I moved to Seattle that year, I began to enjoy whole bottles and glasses again, the first time since Vail. For the next two or three years, I never drank more than the equivalent of about one bottle of beer or one glass of wine every month. One month, I might have two beers and a glass of wine, but the next two months, I might never encounter a particular reason to do so.

Now, I am 24, married, living in Seattle, and enjoying the fact that I'm just beginning to understand some of the basic distinctions between a lager, an ale, and a hefeweizen. For you who continue to pretend that you 'get it' but really still don't, let me break it down for you really simply: drink lagers with spicy foods, like Mexican or Thai dishes, drink ales with all-American dishes, particularly if they are grilled, like hamburgers, steaks, grilled poultry, or if you're just standing around eating appetizers like cheese and salami at a party. Hefeweizen's are wheat beers derived from Germany, so drink them with anything German, sausages, roasted dishes, baked poultry, if you like, or even with your morning crepes (yes, I know crepes are French; I'm just saying).

The key for you fellas out there (this is where I give you the greatest yet most simplistic advice you'll ever hear) is this. Never drink beer out of habit. Never drink enough beer to give you a light-headed feeling if you're alone, and if you get that far with companions, make sure you stop drinking at that very point (or, of course, earlier). If you're not sure which brands or kinds of beer to drink, don't be an insecure anxious awkward faker; just be genuine. Ask lots of questions. Never drink the national brands unless they end in the word "Select," which means they're trying to offer a version that is more like a micro-brew (a.k.a. finer ingredients, more history, slower, more thoughtful process, better beer masters). Just drink micro-brews when you can. Pair the right beer with the right food, but keep it simple; it's okay to have a handful of favorites and never drink anything else but those. At some point, there is no need to branch out anymore until you have some friends give you a hearty recommendation; otherwise, you're just going to waste good money on a lot of crap.

So, be wise, don't be neurotic, be fun to be around, if you're going to drink, which means don't be an ass or a fake, and stick to the classics. I like Alaskan Amber Ale with salmon and steak, Dos Equis Lager with fajitas, nachos, and other Mexican dishes, Pacifico Lager specifically at El Rancheon restaurant with their tortilla soup, Mac & Jacks with steak, seafood, appetizers, without food, or with just about anything, and Pyramid Hefeweizen with a light seafood meal or any light but flavorful meal. My newest favorite is Red Hook Amber Ale. Corona has a subtle fish oil element that is disturbing unless you're standing on the beaches of Cabo San Lucas or have a ripe lime to hide it. And remember, it's okay to put lime wedges in your beer but only if it's a Mexican lager and, even then, try it first without the lime to test your appreciation for the flavors of the beer. And, for heaven's sake, if you'd prefer the Thomas Kemper Root Beer that is available, don't drink the Budweiser Select just to feel more 'acceptable' to those around you. They don't care.

The Exsiccation Melody

2006-02-03T10:12:00.000-08:00

the slowest small drifts out in dark hues of gray
under the dim fog of dust
there mixed up into a deep heaviness vein
and walloping din to remind us

the scenic arrays with such latent appeal
with white peaks and the blue Sound of lore
torpid, lethargic, bunumbed, and repose
sitting under the burden, await

sprouting out of a dimple in its bubblesome scape
three frail sober spires adorn
a trepid prosaic beside such renown
the only resplendent One to fix our gazes upon

and there standing bold admidst the splendorious scene
Her guard of invariable knights
the strong, the few, the wonderful
who stand and face their Queen; we stand to face our Queen, when...

scattered on valley, on slope, and plateau
lit by a great hidden Friend
the earliest motions of new gathered strength
a fresh equanimity rises, and then

we breathe the air that now blows through
the crannies strewn across our ville
to freshen up our stagnant caves
at long last we can emerge; our spirits can emerge

though it dampened us
our every going there and back
to forth and to the sea
the budded Blossom dries crust atop suppressed benignity

the sweetest chirp on wing and sea
invigorates mirth, merriment, and glee
blitheness, laughter, wit, and hope
bright Jocularity...

lit on me, lit on me, lit on me!

Space of Days

2006-02-02T18:54:00.000-08:00

in the blaring silences of surrounded
eyes in the back of heads
with clinks and twists and scratches
a chuckle, then a gulp, a gasp

and every wrinkle in time
is a space with no rhyme
with no rhyme
with no rhythm
with no rhyme

constant changes, evolving, motion
yet stillness, awkwardness, silence
(laughter, conversation, blessedness)
the wandering, the wondering

and every wrinkle in time
is a space with no rhyme
with no rhyme
with no rhythm
with no rhyme

days of death, and days (of grace)
the space of days in every nook
and every space, every block, on every note
time has escaped, glaring, and there is no chance to say...

Watch the Ellen Show on Monday

2006-02-01T21:17:00.001-08:00

My Mom is going to be on The Ellen Show this coming Monday. Now, when I say on The Ellen Show, I don't mean like when your mother visited the David Letterman Show or your Pappy got to see the Grand Ol' Opry. I mean, my Mom is going to be on it.

Admittedly, this might be stretching it a bit. She will actually be sitting in the audience. She's no "star" herself in the world's eyes... But, she did graduate from Atlanta High School in Atlanta, Texas, in 1976... and so did Ellen. Yes, Ellen and my Mom were classmates. After her sophomore year, Ellen moved from Louisiana (I think near New Orleans) over to Atlanta. She was in different cliques than my Mom, but they knew each other. I mean, come on, it's a small town, there were only about 100 or so students in their graduating class. You know how it is: everyone knows everyone.

So this year is their thirty-year class reunion. Rather than meeting in the gym or some conference room at a local motel, she decided, at the suggestion of one of their mutual friends, Mark White, who now also lives in Southern California, to host the class reunion on her show. So, everyone was invited, and Ellen has flown a number of them to Burbank. My Mom arrived today. I just got off the phone with her. She's very, very excited. And, they're having a blast. Getting to stay in the Burbank Hilton and being pampered and celebrated can't be that bad.

Some interesting stories have already come out of the woodwork of this whole process. For instance, a camera crew spent last week cruising around Atlanta to take some shots and interview her old buddies. One of them is Phil Rice. Phil was one of the men who helped out with our cross-country team some when I was in school, and his wife, Donna, was my 6th grade Social Studies teacher and 8th grade Speech and Drama teacher. She is one of my favorite teachers of all-time. Well, anyway, Phil dated Ellen a bit, so they questioned him. Unfortunately, Donna and Phil decided not to go, but some of the class members were telling the Ellen people today about how Phil and Ellen dressed up as "Bonnie and Clyde" once. The Ellen people were very excited about this and really wanted a picture. They called Donna to ask her if she was coming, and she said, "No, I already told you we weren't." They asked her to mail the picture, but she said she didn't want to lose it (and they didn't know if it would arrive in time), so she wouldn't mail it. She said she could mail a copy, but they weren't interested in a copy. They wanted the original. So then, Donna heard Ellen yell to them in the background, "Tell her to send it with Jo Griffin!" (that's my Mom; "Griffin" is her maiden name)

Furthermore, when they got off the airplane today in Burbank on American Airlines, they asked the people on the plane for the Ellen high school reunion to stay on after everyone else left. They then found my Mom and told her she was in charge and that she should round everybody up and kind of lead the pack. She shyly attempted to do as told, unsure of the reason for such attention. One of the things that ensued was them gathering and singing the Alma Mater. Since this was all filmed, it will likely be tied into the show. So, basically, she doesn't really know if Ellen has particular memories of my Mom that has lead her to suggest her for certain duties or what, but, any way around it, my Mom is very concerned now that she might be spotlighted at some point to answer some question during the show. If that happens, then she told me that she probably would just be the center of an awkward moment, because she can't remember any particular memories worth sharing about Ellen.

That is my story. I just wanted you all to be in on the coolness of what's going on right now down in Burbank. Watch the show Monday if you get the chance. She evidently has been mentioning things about Atlanta during the past week in order to build some interest in the upcoming reunion. One story that is particularly funny is when, last week, Ellen said on the show, humorously speaking to Atlanta classmates that might be watching, "Ricky Partain, so I'm wondering if you're going to want your "promise ring" back now." (I'm assuming most of you understand the significance of a "promise ring.") Anyhow, the Ellen people then called Ricky to ask if he would indeed want his "promise ring" back, and he, being drunk when they called (as I was told), said, "Hell! I don't remember givin' her any "promise ring!" When they asked, "Oh, you didn't give her a "promise ring?" he responded, "What I said was, I don't remember givin' her one."

Funny story. Oh, and one more thing. Ellen still has a good friendship with Mark White, who was (is) also a good friend of my Mom. She's actually staying there at his house in Burbank tonight. He is also the one that suggested to Ellen a few weeks ago that she do this whole thing. Anyhow, some of Ellen's staff asked Mark this past week what he thought would be three things that Atlanta High School needs, and she was going to try to pick something that would be special. At the time, he randomly came up with (1) a flashy new digital sign out in front near the road for messages and such, (2) something else that I can't remember that wasn't that big of a deal, and (3) (he thought about this one for a bit but couldn't come up with anything, but they said, "Ellen wants three things") so, after he thought about it awhile, he told them, "Well, how about a new gym?" They sort of chuckled at this and thanked him. So, we're now curious: might we soon, there in Atlanta, Texas, have a new basketball stadium called DeGeneres Arena? That would be awesome.

Isn't this all very cool? It's exciting when the entertainment world and the world of your childhood collide. No one can really explain that, but it would be true for anyone, I suppose. Something about taking what you have always known as the ordinary, the mundane, the culturally insignificant and having it shown to the whole world for the beauty of a thing that it really is (and, yes, Atlanta, Texas, is, in fact, quite a beauty, in my opinion) is quite satisfying and fun.

The Rekindlement

2006-01-27T22:00:00.000-08:00

then it Ended, leaving only
memory; fading
into a jitter and twitch
toward distant twilight

obscured, a swarth
(imagined) against the darkened moon
yet gleaming at the edge of nothing
with the burst and crack of fear

and all silence.

...

with that deep gulp of Death, immersed in some Great Fountain, agasp in Joy;
bedazzled by the untetherable ache of a full midday beam
and cloaked by an immaterial glow, a soul swollen
by the very first true fear, unadulterated, naked, vulnerability...

Then,
singing.

...

"You must be strong with my strength and blessed with my blessedness, for I have no other to give you."

in the Culmination, beauty and fullness.
yet in the silence: this aching, unbendable
Fear. yet alongside it, before it, and beyond...the only Consoling Mystery.

...

we in Togetherness,
with no masquerade; instead, utter unknowing
filled with final certainty. It is finished.

...

choosing to embrace that life that is
by faith, by faith, by faith...