A Rialto/TRP Update

Many of you have been so gracious to read my ramblings and follow the crazy story of The Reclamation Project's inception and the Rialto's rebirth. Some of you have stuck with me since the beginning of blog #1, which began nearly three years ago.

Well, I'm happy to say that Phase I of the Rialto is now finished (as you can see in these photos).

Already we see God lining up opportunities for this space to be used. This summer we hope to partner with a legal aid clinic called NCLC that operates out of Indianapolis. They want to expand their services to Fort Wayne, so we're discussing the opening of an intake site at the Rialto. NCLC offers free legal aid to low income clients in the realm of immigration law, tenant/landlord disputes, tax issues, housing and other areas where there is a great need within refugee communities.

As you may also know, Fort Wayne is now home to a large population of Darfuri who were forced out of their homeland due to the genocide there. TRP has been privileged to begin discussions with the Darfur Peace and Development Organization as it relates to a potential office share arrangement with them in this newly finished Rialto space.

TRP is nearly done with our rehab project of a house in one of the Rialto's surrounding neighborhoods. As you may recall from other posts, TRP is a CHDO (Community Housing Development Organization), which allows us to receive funding to purchase run down, or shall we say "reasonably priced properties," and through volunteer assistance, equip and rehabilitate these homes for our refugee families. Often refugees arrive here with large families and need more space than the rental units available to them, so we hope to do more of these housing projects in the future, as funding allows.


Lastly, the Circle of Friends program in Fort Wayne continues to offer hope to our new friends and cross cultural appreciation for Americans involved. As can be expected, one of the most crucial resources for international refugees to build a sustainable future is local friendship. Through the Circle of Friends, Fort Wayne residents are connected to newly arriving families with the simple goal of helping them transition well to life here; they assist with various cultural transition points, such as: transportation, financial management, grocery shopping, cooking, etc. Of most importance, a cross cultural relationship is started, which leads toward mutual understanding and long term benefit to both groups and, ultimately, the Fort Wayne community. As you've likely heard before, often it is the American volunteers who find themselves learning more than the refugees they came to serve. Seems like God wants us to remember the level playing field He always had in mind for us.

That's a quick update! Thanks to everyone for your ongoing prayers and words of encouragement.

~ Jeff

P.S. I was able to land a literary agent .. woo hoo! Steve Laube, out of Phoenix is representing me and currently attempting to get a traditional publisher interested in book #1, and while they're at it, hopefully book #2 as well!

Prayer for Hallie

UPDATE (5/7):

She's home!!

She's on quite a few medications to ward off infection, and needs to keep weight on, but hopefully all will remain calm in this sweet little girl's road to recovery.

Once again, I thank you all for your prayers.
Blessings to you and yours..

Jeff

UPDATE (5/1):

Hallie is out of the ICU and is currently in the pediatric ward. The intricate pattern of tubes and IV's are starting to fall away one by one.
Hopefully my next update will be that Hallie is at home with her family!

Biliary Atresia isn't something that can be completely healed, but the surgery she just endured will allow her to lead a mostly normal life. A liver transplant may be necessary in the years ahead.

I'm so grateful for all of you and the time you're taking to pray for this sweet little girl. Thank you!!

UPDATE (4/27):

Each day is better for Hallie! Her temperature is holding steady, kidney function is still good, and she's quietly recovering from her surgeries. She's been opening her eyes from time to time and the Dr.s hope to get her off the ventilator over the weekend.

The power of prayer is undeniable. Thank you for the part you've played (and will hopefully still play) in her ongoing recovery!

UPDATE (4/24):

Thank you SO much for your prayers and your encouraging e-mails. Currently, Hallie is stable. They've been able to get her kidney function under control and her fever has broken, which the doctors were pleased with. She's not out of the woods yet, and so much seems to change at any given moment, so I'd appreciate your ongoing prayers! ~ Jeff


Hey everyone ~

Could you lift up a prayer for my niece Hallie? She's 2 months old and was born with a condition called Biliary Atresia. She needed surgery last week to repair the bile ducts in her liver, and since that time she's needed a second surgery to repair an intestinal kink. I received a call this morning that she's not doing well at all .. kidney function is not where it needs to be.

Any prayers you can offer on Hallie's behalf, as well as my sister Jodi, brother-in-law Jeff and family would be much appreciated.

Please also pass this on to others that you know will pray. I will post updates as I get them.

Blessings, and thanks ~

Jeff

Chapter 16 The Right to Refuse Him, Part 2

So I lift the net as my brothers watch, and I throw it. As it hits the water, almost immediately there’s a churning, like a tremor beneath the surface. I wonder what I’ve caught, for this is highly unusual, and actually, quite impossible.

I plant my feet against the edge of the boat and I start to lift it out of the water. I stumble from the weight and my brothers rush to my aid. Soon, they too are struggling from the enormity of our catch; so many fish are trapped that I lose count and I know this net won’t hold the bulk. The spray from their flopping and flailing hits our faces and we laugh at the miracle in our hands.

Before I can appreciate what is happening, John squints toward the beach and cries out, “It’s the Master!” and instantly, I know this must be true.

With the sunlight now, I can see his face across the sea and he’s beaming. He’s piercing the distance between us and seeing right into the center of me with overwhelming love and compassion.

My first reaction is to hide, as if I could. I still cower a little.

I’ve forgotten my nauseating hunger as I lift the net with all of my might. Others jump out of the boat and swim to greet him as I stay behind to drag the load myself. It’s another miracle altogether that the net still hasn’t ripped.

He’s prepared breakfast and the fire is strong and healthy. The aroma is promising of a fisherman’s feast, and if it wasn't for my sin and shame, I couldn't imagine a more perfect moment than this one.

Most of the fish are still living and trying to escape as I haul them on land, but it’s an effort in vain. We eventually count 153 of them, caught in an instant, after an entire night of nothing. For me too, it's obvious now that my efforts without him are always in vain.

How soon I forget.

There’s an awkward pause, at least for me as I approach him. The symbolism isn’t lost on me as he hands me some bread. I stand nearly naked before him and the heat from the fire is swirling the cool morning air.

I sit and literally devour my breakfast. Never has there been so much satisfaction in warm bread and freshly fried fish. Still, I can’t escape the feeling that I’m the center of attention. My brothers seem intent on reading his face, looking for some disappointment in his eyes, some preparation for a scolding which I’m sure I'll receive.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want it—a lashing, some type of punishment for my behavior so I can know resolution. But nothing will distract him from his leaning posture of grace and forgiveness toward me.

Not even my denial of him.

We finish and he leads us again, much like he used to; he is walking down the beach, and we follow. I'm in front, as I should be, and, as if knowing my earthly hunger was now satisfied, I'm hoping he'll address deeper cravings inside of me.

Am I alright by him? Will I do this again? How can I be so strong in some aspects of my life, and then fail him so miserably? If my choices of late have been destroying me, what choice must I finally make to end this torture?

Apparently, the denial is not a topic of concern for him, so I wonder if he’s already forgotten about it. Instead, he dials in and asks me if I love him. Three times in a row, in fact, in rapid succession, much like those who learned of my betrayal first hand. I wonder if it’s intentional and if I’ll use the same knee jerk, skin deep reaction that I did then. He’s asking me so fast that of course I tell him I love him. Of course I love him more than my brothers love him. I love him as much as he already knows I love him.

I love him. Period. How can he even ask such a question? And how many times must I answer him? How can he doubt my word and my affection?

I wonder, for with each response, I’m charged with a responsibility.

To feed his lambs.

To feed his sheep.

And to follow him.

Rough translation: Don’t just tell me you love me. Anyone can do that. Show me you love me.

He turns to look at me and in an instant, I know my love for him will always pale in comparison to the love he has for me. Why did I spend so much time wallowing in my guilt and shame? What can separate me from his love?

Nothing.

And so I must follow, because somehow, he knows that by giving him lip service, I retain my right to refuse him. And I often will. I must choose to physically follow after him and do what he does, or remain the steward of my own destiny.

And that may be my toughest choice of all.

Chapter 15 The Right to Refuse Him, Part 1

The dawn is mostly black, but for a few tinges of light on vague clouds that conceal the horizon. Generations before me have promised that the night is always darkest before dawn, and I know this to be true.

Especially on the water.

Despite the last minute rush of deep and lonely darkness, though, this has always been my favorite time of the day. I've spent many nights like this on the sea as the steward of my own destiny, and I still rejoice in something that is beyond me; something that is ever steady and true.

But, on this particular break of morning, I find no joy in the promise of it. Whatever light or hope may exist, I’ve entered the darkest period of my life and I’m not sure I can even make it to the dawn.

My choices have been destroying me.

Oddly enough, this livelihood of mine is all I have now, and it's all about choices; this spot or that, this side or another. I can rely on my own ability and strength out here, and, of course, I can always count on the fish to be stupid. But, today, despite my years of experience, I’m coming up empty.

Anymore, it seems I can't do anything right.

I should have eaten by now, but I’ve been so consumed with guilt and shame that to eat anything at all seems like another betrayal. Surely, I can’t be satisfying my own hunger in the wake of this.

I’m starting to feel sick.

Still, all I know to do is to pour myself into work and hope this passes. I’m stripped nearly bare out here, both literally and I suppose figuratively, perhaps as a penance. I've been at this all night and nothing. Maybe I'm being punished.

So, what exactly did I do? I denied a friend. Said I didn't know him. It was deliberate and even I was surprised by it.

Of all the people for me to refuse, I chose him.

One time, I could live with, but then, I did it a second time. And a third. My world was spinning and quite frankly I might have done it again and again if given the opportunity. But, it stopped. Gratefully, it stopped with a startle. The shrill and echo of it still shrieks in my ears.

I had been spared.

The thing is, I'm afraid I'll do it again and I can't live with myself much longer if that's the case. If I couldn’t control myself then, who's to say I ever will? He made his point, you know--that I have the ultimate power to choose and the right to refuse him.

Perhaps I should run away and stop embarrassing myself.

And him.

Without breakfast, the chill in the air seems almost unbearable now. I start to shiver uncontrollably. But I stay with the task at hand, because I will figure this out by myself. The black sky is turning deep purple and it's giving way to slivers of orange and shades of gray as I steady myself. Voices of friends and brothers are murmuring in the background and I know they're talking about me.

Of course, I'm intimidating. I always have been, so no one will come out and say what they're thinking to my face.

They're afraid that I won't ever forgive myself. Could they think I'd be foolish enough to end it? Judas did. Maybe that's why they're never too far from my side. They don't want to leave me to my own fate.

The wind picks up and as it does, smoke reaches me all the way out here, so I turn around. Off in the distance, on the beach, I see the flickering of a fire. A man is crouched over it, fanning it and giving it life. I keep my eyes on him as I pull the net out of the water and it's empty, again.

He gets up and walks ankle deep into the shore, puts his hands up around his mouth and shouts to me:

“Try the other side!”

And just like that, I'm distracted from my feigned confidence and self loathing. My gut reaction is to question how he knows better than I, for I’ve been to this spot before, hundreds of times, and I’ve controlled my own destiny with my own hands and my very own choices. I’ve trusted my discernment and crafted my own judgment.

“Go ahead. Try it!” he shouts again, through laughter, as if knowing my inner struggle is almost always in vain.

Well, nothing is going my way, so what can it hurt? The fish may be stupid, but I’m not. The breaking of the night is eerily timed as the sun peers over the eastern sky.

So I lift the net as my brothers watch, and I throw it…

To be continued

Weezer, Redux

I seem unable to find the time or energy to write anything new these days. Call it a royal funk, if you will.

So, indulge me as I post something old as new again. This, written some time last year, seems to fit where I'm at.


My Handsome Sweater

If you want to destroy my sweater,
pull this thread as I walk away.
Watch me unravel, I’ll soon be naked.
Lying on the floor, I’ve come undone.

Weezer

It occurs to me, right about now, as I’m listening to the angst-ridden lyrics of Weezer, that I too wear a sweater. Thankfully, mine is still intact, but it seems I take this for granted, when in fact I should count it all joy and be forever grateful, if only for the simple reason that I’ve been adorned with much splendor.

Still, I casually but confidently dither about in these garments of grandeur—the very regalia of the One who loves me. Certainly it’s a leap of epic proportions to jump from Weezer to God, I know, but you'll just have to trust me, and I promise to stitch it all up by the end.

You see, He, being in fact God, fills my lungs and suggests my pulse this day—and, come to think of it, yours as well—and He clothes us in such a fashion that we are quite beautiful to Him. So, to expand upon this darn of consciousness, Weezer got me to thinking that even as God weaves amazing and stunning beauty into His design, the stark reality is that we're always just one string pull away from becoming drastically and quite conclusively undone.

Indeed, I'm but a mere moment away from being discovered—naked and prostrate, lying face first on the floor next to a bundle of yarn that used to be my handsome sweater.

I say all of this because it seems, in my audacity, that I have ignored this notion, and I am perhaps not alone—especially in the Church—because we've reached a supreme level of self-sufficiency and superiority, and for lack of a better word, superciliousness.

Somehow, in some way, Weezer is enlightening me, and hopefully you, and revealing in no small way that we need to dispense with the misplaced and long-held presumption that God, in His infinite wisdom, saw fit to love us more than the next group of people. Certainly, He loves you and he loves me with a passionate, unrelenting and often unrequited love, but he loves you just as much as he loves me, and yes, he really does love that man or that woman or that group of individuals you’re pondering right now, which is certainly unthinkable, but it is ever true.

I have a hunch that in our circles, we don't give this much consideration. At least I don't, as I toss stares of judgment at the stylistically challenged and repeatedly render guilty verdicts in the fashion trials of my mind.

We go to great lengths to muster our own strength and we elbow our way to the front of the line and we endeavor quite smashingly to do it all on our own; we smugly assume that we're entitled to more favor in the eyes of our own private Creator, more favor than perhaps He would or should show for the next guy. We conclude that we're more pleasing to Him and more obedient, and with that affection and preference locked in for a lifetime, we set about to capably and confidently choose our own outfits and attempt to accomplish much through our garb and gear and accessorizing.

And this ability, this self-sufficiency, this cavalier independence, whether we like it or not, has its way with our denominational dress, our righteous and regal religious trimmings, our chic bias and our prideful and prejudicial panache.

But somehow we must repudiate the notion that these new trends we fashion and these styles we strut are exclusive reflections of God—the very One who, lest we forget, became a common, unadorned man, by choice, two thousand years ago, without pomp and circumstance. The very One who, right about now, in my imagination (and maybe yours), is seeking and loving all as he circles our respective towns as an unassuming Harley-riding peacemaker, wearing a leather vest that has some dried mud on the back of it, jeans that need a good wash, and boots that are beyond polishing.

Malign others for their inherent differences and their errancies if you must, but beware, for each of us bears the unfortunate but true unraveling point—that dangling, hanging string. We are, in fact, a mere stitch and pull away from being stripped naked on the floor, our destroyed sweater in a pile next to us, crying out to a Maker who sees mankind as His creation, a Stylist whose vogue is ever now; his love, ever true and unchanging.

Indeed, there must be acceptance and humility, a nimbleness and flexibility of spirit, a darning of a gentle mosaic manner, especially as a new kind of church that serves not merely to tolerate, but to appreciate and integrate, for our world is increasingly made up of those who don't always fit into or match the clothing we pull from our collective closets.

And that, my friends, in a thimble, is what Weezer taught me today.

Chapter 14 Some Semblance of Teetotalism

Levi and I jumped in the car and we were off to get his treat.

You see, it just so happens in the Jacobson house, that if a child can practice restraint over his or her particular vice for a period of time, then a small, five-dollar prize awaits the victor at our local Walgreens.

It all begins with the accumulation of a week’s worth of stickers on the calendar representing each day he or she is able to stare down and defeat a particular issue which is damaging to the soul and body. Levi, who is seven, has been asked to leave his tattered, beloved dottie-dog (think Beanie-baby Dalmatian) in his bed, for if his right hand is holding it, his left thumb is firmly planted in his mouth. Thus, if we keep the dog in his bed, we limit thumb-sucking to only those moments of top-bunk slumber.

And so he did it. One whole week of dominance over the dark side. Truth be told, though, it wasn't long before Levi could be spotted wandering around the house, slipping back to his old ways. It's a struggle for him, but as his benevolent parents, we're mostly interested in a gradual scaling back; you know, toward some semblance of thumb-sucking teetotalism.

Anyhow, a celebration was still to be had for the one week of abstinence, so, back to the trip at hand. The Police were just starting in with Spirits in the Material World and you should know that this is just about my most favorite non-Boss song from the 80’s, and Levi seemed to agree that it was pretty cool, so we sang it together.

In fact, I like it so much and it’s never long enough (like most Police songs), so I played it over and over.

And over again, all the way to the Walgreens parking lot.

It’s really a simple little ditty, so here goes (sing it in your head, after the funky synth intro):

There is no political solution
To our troubled evolution
Have no faith in constitution
There is no bloody revolution

We are spirits in the material world
(Are spirits in the material world
Are spirits in the material world
Are spirits in the material world)

Our so called leaders speak
With words they try to jail you
The subjugate the meek
But it's the rhetoric of failure

(Repeat Chorus)

Where does the answer lie?
Living from day to day
If it's something we can't buy
There must be another way

We are spirits in the material world
(Are spirits in the material world)

So, Levi and I, firmly aware of our spirits-in-the-material-world status, went into Walgreens where, after much deliberation, he proceeded to pick out a plastic motorcycle with a guy on it and a package of candy.

When we walked out of the store, Levi had his chin held high and a big smile on his face. I asked him if he wouldn’t mind if we played the song again, like five times on the way home, and he obliged. He sang and played with his new guy and by the time we reached our driveway, Levi knew most of the words, or at least some version of them since Sting never did articulate the lyrics very well.

Interestingly, I read once that this song made the top 10 list of the "Most Misunderstood Lyrics." Not the meaning behind them, the actual words themselves. In fact, you may be learning as well, for the very first time, the real lyrics to this song, which all along you thought were something else.

Spirits in the material world?

Levi made up his own: "Yee haw, don't spit in my cereal, ha."

And I learned "Icy 'coladas treat" is actually "Our so called leaders speak."

Anyway, since the 80's have come and gone, along with the 90's and any semblance of my youth, I found myself reflecting more on the meaning behind these lyrics, and Levi too, with his vanquished vice and treat of celebration.

Maybe, upon closer inspection of the whole thing, it’s not a simple little ditty after all.

Sting was right, in that we are a troubled evolution. Or creation. Or however you want to look at it. We each have chinks in our armor which may be our own little secret, or we may have chosen to go public. Or we've been caught in it, removing any choice at all in the matter.

Like Levi, we each have our vice requiring us to practice some form of restraint.

I’ll admit I get a bit lost on the overall meaning of the song, especially now that I know the lyrics, but perhaps the thrust of it is to condemn our collective reliance on material things, even our material skin; that our time here is fleeting, and whatever causes us to be a faulty humanity is simply too large a burden to carry, so instead it makes sense to pacify ourselves with the notion that we’re all beautiful souls trapped in temporary bodies, in a gravity filled world that is all upside down and backassward.

But really, this wandering post isn't about what Sting might have meant, so I digress.

What I’m really trying to say is that there are long held truths that we’ve always assumed are truths, much like our botched rendition of Police lyrics. Might be a bad church history thing or a legalistic upbringing. We keep singing along to what we think the words are, when actually, those aren’t the lyrics at all.

You and I, we’re pretty screwed up. We'll struggle for a lifetime to defeat a particular issue which is damaging to our soul and body. I'm not trying to excuse sin, but somehow instead we need to come to grips with the fact that some of what we’ve believed to be true all of these years, well, it simply isn’t.

In fact, once we hear the lyrics the right way, it's pretty hard to hear them any other way.

Despite our collective shortcomings, in God's eyes we're beautiful, ransomed and redeemed. Any attempt to believe otherwise undermines the very reason Jesus was sacrificed on the cross. Sin and death have been defeated, but when we wallow in our guilt and shame, we essentially tell him the whole Resurrection thing didn't stick.

We each have our own vice, so in this, none of us should feel alone. And we rarely pick a new one. We tend to repeat our pattern, and unfortunately that means that this vice, whatever it is, will be with us and hound us for the rest of our lives. We have to be honest with ourselves--it will. We can't assume that we're ever far enough away from it that Satan won't keep it high on his list of taunt and torture tactics.

By the way, if you think you're above it or beyond your particular little issue, then he has you right where he wants you. Pretty soon we'll find you wandering around the house, slipping back to your old ways, your vice hanging out of your pocket.

And yes, the truth is, whatever that vice is, the sin arising out of it separates us from God. But Jesus beat that sin on the cross, which is why grace always wins.

This is a daily struggle, no doubt. We need to get back up when we fall and we need to find the right help to get us through it and community to support us. And we have to put stickers on our calendars and learn how to acknowledge our successes and not beat ourselves up with stupid lies about our worthlessness or some unwillingness on Jesus' part to forgive us (again).

And don't forget about that misheard lyric that grace just won't cut it this time.

It will.

Pretty soon, if we keep at it, we can hold our chin high and look forward to a gradual scaling back to some semblance of teetotalism.

And don't forget about a treat to help you celebrate.

4 He was sheer weakness and humiliation when he was killed on the Cross, but oh, he's alive now - in the mighty power of God! We weren't much to look at, either, when we were humiliated among you, but when we deal with you this next time, we'll be alive in Christ, strengthened by God. 5 Test yourselves to make sure you are solid in the faith. Don't drift along taking everything for granted. Give yourselves regular checkups. You need firsthand evidence, not mere hearsay, that Jesus Christ is in you. Test it out. If you fail the test, do something about it.

2 Cor. 13: 4-6

Chapter 13 Only Fools Believe Such Nonsense

17 A man out of the crowd answered, "Teacher, I brought my mute son, made speechless by a demon, to you."

The shell of my captured is lifeless. To my master’s satisfaction, I’ve used secrecy and subtlety and with a little bit of resolve, I've consumed him. I always snicker on the inside, because everyone should know my methods by now. But they don't.

In fact, you don't.

Now, you probably have some limited understanding of the time continuum, but limited is where I want you to stay, for my ways are then sealed in some ancient story, with frothing of the mouth and seizures and the mania of demonic possession. If it’s ancient to you, then perceived boundaries are drawn.

Allow me to let you in on a little secret, though: I know no boundaries. I know no time, for I don’t play by your rules.

Certainly you appreciate that I’m vile. I'm the lowest form of just about anything you can conceive of, and even then I'm much worse. Take a death row inmate—no, take every guilty, demented death row inmate—and the shame of their crimes and the cries of their victims are entertainment for me. I rejoice in their pain. In fact, I take full responsibility for each and every heinous act, for at their worst, I'm at my best.

I do report in regularly, for my master is obsessed with control and he won’t be denied access to my whereabouts and my efforts on his behalf. If I could rise up against him, I would; there is no loyalty in these ranks, only fear and some twisted duty arising out of it.

I summon him for our daily briefing. There’s no small talk, so I begin without delay. I take sick pleasure in the father's desperation:

18 "Whenever it seizes him, it throws him to the ground. He foams at the mouth, grinds his teeth, and goes stiff as a board. I told your disciples, hoping they could deliver him, but they couldn't."

“Even his closet followers have failed in their attempts to be rid of me,” I inform my liege, with smug satisfaction.

“That’s because they’re idiots. Press on, and do not disappoint me.”

“I won’t. Have I ever?”

There’s no response because he knows. In the wake of his silence, I know he acknowledges my greatness.

I return to the task at hand, and it’s the same. It’s always the same. Then, now, whatever you think time is—I’m an occupier and a parasite. I will devour every last bit of goodness in you, well beyond your ridiculous hope for redemption. Even as you read this, I am bound and determined to de-rail your faith. I will cause you to doubt the resurrection, to see the folly of religion, church and biblical fairy tales.

Only fools believe such nonsense.

My genius is in all that you don’t acknowledge as my work, as I rise on the wake of each dawn to begin my pursuit of you, well before you can even embrace the promise of a new morning.

I am stress, and I weigh heavy on you. I attack you. I am the one who tells you over and over that you’re not capable of handling this life. Any of it.

I am distrust for your mate, your child, your boss and your closest confidant. They will betray you and I’m behind it all.

I am your addiction and I am constantly making a way for you to enter into temptation. I will make sure you fall, time and time again. There are limitations to grace and you have found them.

I am guilt, and I am shame.

I am pain, for you are worthless and everything eating at you right now is me, reminding you that you’ll never amount to anything. You are a failure. You are a statistic.

I am depression and disease. I will tear at your health and sense of well-being.

I am death, and I’m coming for you.

19 Jesus said, "What a generation! No sense of God! How many times do I have to go over these things? How much longer do I have to put up with this? Bring the boy here."

Go ahead. Read this story all you want. Preserve it away as history and I have won. Even now you will doubt its accuracy, for how could this really have happened? It’s not relevant.

20 They brought him. When the demon saw Jesus, it threw the boy into a seizure, causing him to writhe on the ground and foam at the mouth. 21 He asked the boy's father, "How long has this been going on?" 22 Many times it pitches him into fire or the river to do away with him. If you can do anything, do it. Have a heart and help us!"

Yes, I will pitch you into the fire of your gluttony. I will drown you in the river of apathy. Don’t beg for mercy for there is none to be given. Even now you say “if” because you can’t conceive of the rescue.

I am skepticism.

23 Jesus said, "If? There are no 'ifs' among believers. Anything can happen."

If only you did believe. But you don’t, for I’m still here, and I’m destroying you.

24 No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the father cried, "Then I believe. Help me with my doubts!" 25 Seeing that the crowd was forming fast, Jesus gave the vile spirit its marching orders: "Dumb and deaf spirit, I command you - Out of him, and stay out!"

And just like that, I am blinded. I obey him, and I cower, for how could I not? He is the Bright and Morning Star, and I am shadow. He is the Prince of Peace, and I am war. He is the Lamb, and I am slaughter.

He is love. And I am hate.

26 Screaming, and with much thrashing about, it left. The boy was pale as a corpse, so people started saying, "He's dead." 27 But Jesus, taking his hand, raised him. The boy stood up.

I am defeated.

28 After arriving back home, his disciples cornered Jesus and asked, "Why couldn't we throw the demon out?" 29 He answered, "There is no way to get rid of this kind of demon except by prayer." (Mark 9: 17-29, The Message)

I am silenced.

Porpoise Diving Life

The March issue is up, with contributions from some of your blog-o-friends!

Check it out here.

peace,

~ Jeff

Chapter 12 Same as it Ever Was

And you may find yourself
behind the wheel of a large automobile.
And you may find yourself
in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife.
And you may ask yourself,
Well...How did I get here?

And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Talking Heads (Once in a Lifetime)

The early morning skies have craved some citrus hue of late, and this particular Monday was no exception. I turned eastward to start the week’s whirlwind, again, driving headlong into my very own tangerine dream.

Up ahead, misty white exhaust swirled around the gathering cars at the red light, each with drivers casually sipping their steaming coffee. I was no different; I had settled into the leather seats of my nice German car and turned up the dial just so to heat them. The outside temperature read 3 degrees, though I was quite cozy on the inside.

And David Byrne was serendipitously waxing on and on and on.

So, as I was entertaining the irony of my indoor comfort (belying the outdoor tundra), just ahead of me, these man-made car clouds concealed a solitary figure waiting at the light. His left hand was on his knee, and with his right he was racing that old Harley engine.

Now, there’s no amount of clothing that could fully protect this man, at least in these types of temperatures, but I knew (even as I imagined him) that he really didn’t care much about comfort for himself. His was a unique way of constant sacrifice, ever focused upon leveling this stacked and hugely lopsided deck called humanity.

Same as it ever was.

The light turned green and I pressed ahead with the pack, finding my own comfort in these thoughts. But, wouldn’t you know, he pulled over and motioned me to the side of the road.

Damn. Why couldn’t he return in the spring, or at least when the temperatures achieved some form of sanity?

I swerved to the right shoulder and parked right behind him. It was so stinkin’ cold, or at least it looked like it was, and so I was conflicted about getting out. I decided to stay in the car as he got off his bike and walked toward me. Fighting the instinct to reach for my license and registration, I lowered my window with the touch of a button and he reached in to hug me, which caught me by surprise.

He entered my zone of comfort to touch me.

Same as it ever was.

After he let go, I jumped out quickly, you know, to do the hug right and his smell was familiar—like always, it was a beautiful mixture of the outdoors and ransomed leather. Today it reminded me of winter’s dominance; of frosted evergreens and distant fireplace smoke.

I pulled back from the embrace and he left his hands on my face and they were surprisingly warm.

I’ve missed you, he blurted out, his breath visible in this arctic air.

Not: why did you disobey me? Not: where have you been? Just:

I’ve missed you.

Yeah, I’ve been sidetracked, it would seem.

Same as it ever was.

I dug my hands into my pockets and looked at the horizon. Then I looked over at my gloves, which I had left on my front seat.

Are you ready to come back? He wasn't shivering, but I was.

Of course I knew that I hadn’t been following him very closely. But, to me, it seemed less of a black and white issue; to come back I would actually have to leave, completely. His distance always seems more gradual and retractable at any time, while I attended to other seemingly important details.

Same as it ever was.

Still, much has been written recently of all that clouds my intentions, noble as they are; or at least I've danced around them from time to time. But, I suppose in so doing, the craved reality of him is indeed quite far off, and I know I’m missing the adventure.

I’m ready, I told him. But every time I explode out of the blocks, I fall flat on my face. It seemed like a fitting metaphor. By the way, I was thinking less of track and field, and more of those slalom skiers. You know, given the temperatures.

He smiled. He watched the cars going by and then he leaned against my car.

Just get back up.

Just get back up? That’s the wisdom I’m getting from this Deity?

Jeff, you have my grace and it will not be withdrawn. Take the discomfort of failure and the wounds of falling down and turn them into a blessing for someone else. Don’t retreat back into your own comfort and wealth to lick your wounds. Come and find me out here, where I’m at work, and when you arrive, give me your brokenness. Trust me when I say that pretty soon, you won’t be falling down quite as often.

He climbed back on his ride. He raced his engine to warm it up and turned his head as he left.

Just get back up, Jeff.

And you may ask yourself
What is that beautiful house?
And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go?

I could barely feel my toes as he rumbled away. Friends and neighbors on their way to work stared at me on the side of the road, wondering what possessed me to leave the inside of my gloriously warm car.

And you may ask yourself
Am I right?
Am I wrong?
And you may tell yourself

MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE?

I returned to my now fully heated seat. The outdoor temperature had risen a whole degree to four. I put my gloves on to return some sense of feeling to my fingertips and I merged back on the road behind a passing car, its exhaust rising defiantly to conceal the pigment of the fruit inspired sunrise.

And I was comfortable once more as the Word was getting out. The song was just ending by that point.

Same as it ever was.

Chapter 11 On the Altar of Grace

Well now, everything dies, baby, that's a fact,
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back.
Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty,
And meet me tonight in Atlantic City

Bruce Springsteen, Atlantic City


The Boss is breathing through these speakers, scratchy and wanting. He’s assuring me that everything dies. I know this, of course, but then he speculates that maybe everything that dies someday comes back.

He doesn’t seem convinced.

All the same, he’s promising his lover that they’ll somehow find redemption in Atlantic City—you know, new life rising from bad luck. But this aging Jersey-boy knows the fleeting romance of those beaches all too well, and often the only thing discovered there is a hope for redemption. A deceptive hope.

I'm tainted, though, for a return from death in any form is a check to my Baptist- bred spirit; it's some new-age reincarnation mumbo jumbo that whispers the same false hope to otherwise intelligent people.

Much like gambling always will.

Then again, some things do die and they do come back. Isn't death synonymous with sin, especially to a certain Someone? I think so, those evil twin brothers, both gripping me, white-knuckled for a lifetime. They should both perish in the wake of this Salvation—and I know they do—once, twice and again, but their hold on me is tragic. Did I make some deal with the devil, unbeknownst to me and my good intentions? Who is that leading me from behind, like a thug, his hand on my back, pushing, taunting, turning me this way and that? He’ll follow me through this life of mine, I just know it. He’ll pull me into dark alleyways and corners to remind me who’s really in control, timing his sucker punches just so to the gut.

And I’ve lost my breath again.

For there, I’m reminded that what perishes once on the altar of grace must return with a vengeance, for another round, to test the limit and resolve of such a concept. Surely this everlasting forgiveness is folly to everyone but the One who promised it. Maybe everything that dies, someday comes back.

Certainly sin and its founder would agree.

And the undying pressure of that persuasion stares grace in the eye and it goads me to do the same. To render it useless, for how could anything cover and cleanse this defiance, over and over again? I’m assured it’s normal to join in and to laugh at it, most definitely to mock it.

Try sinning again and find grace wanting, I hear him hiss. Do it again and again for without more sin, how can you ever know its margins?

I must test these waters.

And so I do. One toe, a foot. A leg and it’s warm. How soon does grace respond? It must be quickly, for what threat does fire bring to water? Soon I’m immersed in it, and I must find a way to stay here. To feel it on my skin. To know it like I know anything true.

These waters are deep, cleansing and effortless, my old ways defeated, today and tomorrow; for life goes on and on, offering real hope to otherwise intelligent people.

And death is no match for that.

19 One man said no to God and put many people in the wrong; one man said yes to God and put many in the right. 20 All that passing laws against sin did was produce more lawbreakers. But sin didn't, and doesn't, have a chance in competition with the aggressive forgiveness we call grace. When it's sin versus grace, grace wins hands down. 21 All sin can do is threaten us with death, and that's the end of it. Grace, because God is putting everything together again through the Messiah, invites us into life - a life that goes on and on and on, world without end. (Romans 5 19-21 The Message)

A New Kind of Who We Are

I was honored recently when asked if I would fill in as a guest editor for an upcoming ezine. I quickly said yes, though, I soon learned I'd have to pick a theme for my assigned month.

A theme.

Typically, any type of structure like this is pretty hard for me. I tend to wander all over the place, and in my wandering, I’m not always sure where I’ll end up.

But, thankfully, I stumbled across the Gospel of Mark, and sure enough, said theme started to surface as I became reacquainted with the following passage:

16 Passing along the beach of Lake Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew net-fishing. Fishing was their regular work. 17 Jesus said to them, "Come with me. I'll make a new kind of fisherman out of you. I'll show you how to catch men and women instead of perch and bass." 18 They didn't ask questions. They dropped their nets and followed. (Mark 1: 16-18 The Message)

The usual premise that springs up here is, roughly speaking, all that we need to lay down, right about now, before we can fully follow Jesus. What part of who we are or what we have would seem so completely illogical for us to give up, yet somehow we'd do it anyway, no questions asked?

That's a tough one.

But, taking this emerging theme a step further, I think we've all traditionally known the translation of Jesus calling out to Simon and Andrew, offering that he would make them into “fishers of men.” Very evangelical and that's just fine.

But The Message renders it:

“I’ll make a new kind of fisherman out of you.”

That’s an interpretation I'd never considered. Maybe you hadn't either.

And here's the thing: we know that fishing was the livelihood of Simon and Andrew. We further know that fishing was not only what they did from dawn to dusk—it was who they were. It was in and through fishing that these two men found their identity. Jesus obviously knew this, so he spoke their language and he beckoned them to give their identity over to him, and in so doing, they would be transformed into something different, something adventurous and exciting.

A new way to live.

It couldn't have been easy. That was quite a lot to give up. Everything they knew and everything they were expected to become was wrapped up in fishing.

But, is it possible that Jesus never meant for them to give up who they were? In fact, it seems like he was offering them the concept of becoming a new kind of who they were.

If that's the case, where do we find our identity? What labels us from dawn to dusk? What is it about us that we've been afraid to let go of, to give up, to lay down, always fearing that we'd somehow sacrifice that which defines us?

Do we trust Jesus enough to handle our collective transformation into a new kind of who we are?

“Come with me. I’ll make a new kind of _______________ out of you.”

Let's fill in the blank and find out.

Chapter 10 Love is Being Re-defined

There are signs of His majesty everywhere.

Some are expected and known, as with brilliant sunrises and settings, or in the hopefulness of a child. Perhaps, throughout the seasons that shift and breathe.

Increasingly though, His fingerprints are personified and discovered at the scene, the very one where the oppressed and the ill-fated grab a hand reaching down, with no condition upon rescue. An ongoing attempt is seemingly underway to level the playing field, to render a long awaited admission of the underdog’s existence, of Jesus incarnate. Lives are changing and hearts are softening. Perspectives are opening deep and wide, for love is being re-defined as a way to live, not just a feeling to reconcile.

I shouldn’t be a casual observer, nor should you; or worse yet, we shouldn't be reluctant to give berth to this Kingdom. It is advancing, and we’re acutely aware that it will be ushered in, despite our refusal or indifference as it approaches. The same tapes play over and over again and we make stubborn and willful choices; we dominate and deceive and effectively sidestep Him. We escort Him out of our way.

We divert His parade onto another route.

And I imagine He weeps, as anyone would, for what rejection isn’t harsh and cruel?

Yet His momentum will not be denied for love itself is unrelenting. Brokenness is being unearthed and yes, it surrounds us until the end. This air we breathe, once stagnant, is somehow more buoyant, as we nod in deference to this one or that, for we’re each as sin-stained as the next, and just as doomed.

And despite that sin and our inability to see the royalty of our birth, this unwavering pursuit of His knows no denial, no limitations. We are a chosen family, however bruised and fatigued. We are the redeemed, the purchased, the found.

So, together, shall we withdraw some permission we've granted the evil one? He who begs us to wallow in our shame and our defeat, all the while forcing our ineffectiveness and our inaction? Yes, for there is hope found today in this rabble and pile of fractured clay; that He will still take us and beautify us. That He will still use us.

Indeed, there are signs of His majesty everywhere.

The Porpoise Diving Life

Hey, Happy New Year to all.

At the end of 2006 I was honored to read an advance copy of Bill Dahl's manuscript titled The Porpoise Diving Life. Hopefully it will be available for everyone in the near future because it was encouraging, refreshingly honest and chock full of stories that demonstrate the gritty reality that is often our faith.

Ergo, the theme, "reality for the rest of us."

Anyhow, take a looksie over at his website if you get a chance.

Peace to you and yours. I look forward to spending more time with all of you in 2007.

~ Jeff

Chapter 9 Out of this World, So to Speak

The morning was misty and miserable and heavy. Here it was mid-December, yet somehow it seemed all wrong. It felt more like the dark side of October, perhaps; after the leaves had fallen.

Just beyond and encircling me were trees and bare bushes and together they resembled death or some skeletal assembly. A few degrees colder, I thought, and a blanket of snow would christen this scene holy and pure. But the sun, even as it hid, regrettably left just enough warmth in its wake to render everything gray and clammy.

And oppressive.

I sat with my legs crossed in the middle of this haphazard circle and soon droplets of moisture were forming on my eyelashes. If I blinked, fake tears rolled down as random, miniature streams on my cheeks, breaching this stoic countenance of mine. It was still—so eerily still—like some code of silence had befallen this plot of land.

It was there that I was once again held captive by something dark and heinous, a serpent bent on removing this mustard seed as it rummaged to find fertile soil in me, way down in the depths of me. Sneering and hissing his lies, I trusted him, of course, as he constricted slowly to purvey a subtle, presumed and foregone conclusion that I am just a body; merely a man.

And because of that, my shell and my smile were always meant to be up against yours—and his and hers. Their skin, their ways; their charm and their warm disposition competing with this frigid display of a man. Or, on random days, vice versa.

You’re cute or maybe not; you’re shy or you’re brash. Pause for a moment while I size you up.

This one here is rich, that one not so much. He’s plain but she’s beautiful. Good thing he’s smart. He’s so damn smart and he always knows what’s next, ahead of everyone else and people like him make me feel stupid. Maybe you too.

Over there, look, she’s so stylish. And athletic. Put her over there in that section. With the other stylish and athletic ones.

Still another screams out: “Not me, I’m an artist, and I’ll paint and dance circles and weave my poetry in and around you.”

Defining me, defining you.

You can’t put on a pound, as hard as you try.

Try as I might, I’ll never lose this weight.

Let me carry a tune to you in this bucket for it will never reach my lips. You sing like an angel, and, well, I can’t.

When you look at a baby, it's just that: a body you can look at and touch. But the person who takes shape within is formed by something you can't see and touch - the Spirit - and becomes a living spirit. So don't be so surprised when I tell you that you have to be 'born from above' - out of this world, so to speak.

I strained my eyes to see and my ears to hear because the stillness was broken ever so slightly by this Word, and the low resonance of a distant cello was gliding over the hair on my arms.

Could it be that these talents and grand exteriors of ours must pale and die first? What skeletal assembly are we? Must we re-think what it means to be re-born, to be christened holy and pure?

I wondered, for there, just beneath entangled brown branches (the very ones holding me prisoner), I could see a lion and he somehow knew peace; in fact, a helpless lamb had just nestled its head into his mane. And next to this I saw a refugee clothed in stunning beauty and he was seated before a table of bounty. And near him, an orphan found love and security and hope. And a home. The sick and the lame and the last and the least were smiling at me from the fringe. All humanity previously cursed began to emerge and they were my equal there, by the light, and a bouquet of green and vivid color began to warm the edges of this cold, gray center.

If this is another world, albeit from my imagination, must I find it as a source of new life?

Knowing my refusal still, he cleared through the trees and he wanted to thrash me out of this cross legged, closed-off posture of humanity into some type of heavenly reality, because I just wasn't getting it.

You're not listening. Let me say it again. Unless a person submits to this original creation - the 'wind hovering over the water' creation, the invisible moving the visible, a baptism into a new life - it's not possible to enter God's kingdom.

It doesn’t even make sense to me, this spirit or wind, nor should I be expected to understand his terms, right? But there his Kingdom was, just beyond, invisible but yet oh so visible to me, and it was breathtaking in its simplicity.

And yes, I wanted to enter it.

Yet, I hesitated, for this body of mine is solid and I can touch it. But wait—it's not as good as his. My mind is nothing like hers. They’ve got it all together and so do you, while we're at it.

If I tell you things that are plain as the hand before your face and you don't believe me, what use is there in telling you of things you can't see, the things of God?

And every time it would begin to make sense, I could hear them disagreeing again, as if I was a child, and they were arguing and they thought I wasn’t listening. But I was. This personified evil, unrelenting, gave little ground as he whispered and taunted; how attractive, to rely on my wit, my charm, my privilege. My body.

Such that it is.

This is the crisis we're in: God-light streamed into the world, but men and women everywhere ran for the darkness. They went for the darkness because they were not really interested in pleasing God.

The day grew even darker then, midday no less, as if it had given up completely. The limbs and the thicket started to close in.

You know well enough how the wind blows this way and that. You hear it rustling through the trees, but you have no idea where it comes from or where it's headed next. That's the way it is with everyone 'born from above' by the wind of God, the Spirit of God.

I did hear it picking up then, and the cello began to deepen—not some discord, no, but of stroke and cadence.

This is how much God loved the world: He gave his Son, his one and only Son. And this is why: so that no one need be destroyed; by believing in him, anyone can have a whole and lasting life.

I do believe, I do! Out loud I shouted it.

His retreat was clumsy but swift, that of a snake wounded. And my body relaxed all at once. Branches and bushes previously entwined released their knots and more radiance overcame the gray. The lion stood and the lamb stretched lazily beneath him; and together they knew nothing of this world. And there I could imagine that peace prevailed and light persevered and there was no death, no hunger; nothing of the kind.

And it started to snow.

Passages in italics taken from The Gospel of John, Chapter 3 (The Message)

My Shameless Plea

Hey, it's that time of year. Gift giving and receiving and that sort of thing.

I hate doing this--you know, the whole salesman pitch (read this if you doubt me) BUT, if you should happen to need a last minute gift, please consider ordering a copy of So I Go Now (notice that convenient Amazon link nestled nicely to your right).

All of the proceeds (and I mean ALL of the proceeds) go to support The Reclamation Project, which is really a very worthy place for your money to go.

I promise.

My timing is probably not so good since my buddy RWK is coming out with his very own book, but hey, you can buy both of 'em! And the proceeds from the sale of Today at the Mission go to support a very worthy cause as well. You can buy his here.

It's a feel good gift giving thing all around.

Merry Christmas everyone! Thanks for letting me put my shameless plea out there.

The Power to Transform, Redux

With the holidays bearing down hard, it seems there's little time to write. This piece (from last year at this time) seems to reflect my current state, so I'm whipping it back up for another run.

Not much has changed anyway, except that Tucker is now enamored with a deflated football.


The Power to Transform

I wrestled this past weekend with extension cords and Christmas lights and the indoor and outdoor trees that would hold them. I helped unpack villages and hung ornaments and I listened to the right kind of holiday mood music while everything was made just so. I even set up a Nativity scene, on a counter, with a little tiny porcelain baby; one that, I suppose, was overshadowed and perhaps drowned out by the whole exercise.

So it was somewhat surreal, as you can imagine, while sitting outside on the front step, detangling yet another strand of lights (that I should have put away nicely the year before), to see him ride up, ever so strident and sudden, and low to the ground--helmet less and out of place, again, right here on my cul-de-sac. I dropped my clump of lights and ran to him, and embraced him, for it had been a while.

You might know the feeling.

The fragrance of him had turned to all of my favorite outdoor winter smells, of evergreen and frost and northern winds, and it was obviously a cold day, so I offered him some hot chocolate, and he accepted.

“This is a bit awkward,” I said to him, “that you’re showing up as I’m hanging all of these lights and ornaments on all of these bushes and a huge tree in my living room, life size and then some, and all I’ve got of you is nestled in a miniature Nativity scene.”

I said that maybe it should be the other way around, you know: a life size Nativity scene, and a miniature tree.

He smiled, and inspected my half-lit trees and he told me that he really does like the lights, and the color, and he especially likes the music, which makes sense given the whole inspirational art thing. I assumed that he was particularly fond of the old carols, as if there’s somehow more purity there.

He walked around the house with me, into the backyard, where I had accomplished the lighting of three huge evergreens. He played with Tucker and threw him the old ragged soccer ball that he loves to chase. He talked some more, mostly about how this season makes him feel, how love is encouraged and welcomed and how it has the power to transform, if only for a moment. If only for a month or two.

And speaking of love, he loves to tell a good story, above all one that fits the moment, as you probably know, and so he sat down with me and I could see his breath as he launched into one about Christmas trees and how he rides by quite a few of those hastily constructed, pre-cut tree lots and really, there’s not much you can do to beautify them; especially late at night, the trees just huddle together in darkness, dying a little, waiting for something, anything.

“But then,” he continued, “a family comes along out of nowhere and selects one, carries it out of the darkness, pays for it, calls it their own, brings it home and actually takes it inside their house, right into the center of their living room and they put lights on it and ornaments and garland. And they water it and care for it and they make it quite beautiful.”

He let that hang there, but he said it with such a passion that I got a little choked up. I suppose I had never really thought about it that way, but then I came to my senses and swallowed the lump down deep because he was just talking about a stupid tree.

Still, I assume he wanted me to see a picture, and so I let my imagination stroll down that lane and I considered that some people are dead or dying, huddled in the darkness, waiting for something, anything, and we should go and get them. And bring them into our house. And prolong their lives, I guess.

Of course this seasonal metaphor couldn’t last because it was colliding with too many other practical things, and fearing that I might be left sitting all alone with unanswered questions that were based upon my all too rational thoughts on a cold Saturday with a hopelessly tangled mess of lights in front of me, I asked:

“Yeah, but what about January 2nd, when it’s all over and its needles have fallen off and we strip the dead tree of its ornaments and throw it out on the curb and pretty soon it ends up in a wood chipper and becomes mulch by spring time? Huh? What about that?”

Once again, he looked me deep in the eyes and he paused for a moment, too long really, the kind that made me squirm a bit. Even Tucker seemed uncomfortable and he whimpered a little.

He explained that he doesn’t go about telling faulty stories, and maybe it’s my imagination that’s a bit tangled.

Chapter 8 As He Guides Us Through

There's a very busy intersection near my home which is generally passable during the summer months, but when the school year starts, it becomes a royal quagmire, due in no small part to the high school, junior high and two middle schools just down the way. Between parents and teachers and driving teenagers, there are so many stinkin’ cars in the morning that mere traffic lights are unable to prevent the inevitable bottleneck that ensues.

So, starting in late August, a local sheriff gets up very early, presumably leaves his warm bed and ventures out into the middle of this crazy intersection to direct traffic. He parks his squad car nearby, disables the useless lights and then, with great posture in the center of it all, he starts his motions and his pointing. Within moments the traffic is under control and it’s just natural to defer to him and trust him as he guides us through. When it’s light enough, he uses his hands, but on dark winter mornings, he has those bright orange glow sticks and he looks like that guy who waves in big planes at the airport.

The sheriff ultimately does this traffic dance for about an hour or so every school morning, and, as can be expected, the conditions are usually not so favorable. The weather can be brutal, but even more amazing is his ability to stand firm and un-phased in the midst of cars and trucks and school buses speeding past him, each one coming within inches of hitting him as he adeptly navigates us through.

Quite frankly, I'm not sure how he does it—so many vehicles are coming at him at once, each with the option of going straight, left or right, from two lanes in four directions. It's dizzying to comprehend let alone do.

Every morning, though, there he is. I happen to be one who turns left, and when I do, my face is quite near to his for just a split second, and I smile. Not a big cheesy smile, but one with pursed lips and perhaps a slight nod to say “thanks for your sacrifice.” And he smiles back. Now I know he’s probably being paid for this thankless job, but I can’t imagine it’s much, and really, it can’t be worth getting nearly tagged every morning by a bunch of distracted drivers who are putting on their make-up or fiddling with their electric shavers as they juggle their cell phones and yell at their kids for forgetting to do their homework.

Not that I would ever do that.

And, then, as if those people aren’t bad enough, there’s a woman who always ends up behind me and she has a mean ol’ German shepherd that barks incessantly and lunges out from the back seat window and I swear one of these days that dog is gonna bite the nice sheriff or maybe swipe one of his glow sticks.

Anyhow, getting to my point, I suppose by now you've learned that I like to write about these little scenarios that I stumble across every day, the very ones you might also, so that collectively we’ll be reminded of a very real and living Savior.

Perhaps even One who ventures out into the middle of our busy intersections.

You see, life itself can become a royal quagmire for me, and it’s even more so now in the midst of this crazy holiday season. Sometimes I can't tell whether I'm coming or going and the mere traffic lights I’ve placed in my daily existence to somehow control the chaos—well, they're just not doing the trick and I'm kidding myself if I think they are.

And yet, this crazy holiday season is perhaps the best time to visualize an intersection turned bottleneck; one that was quite noticeable to a Father who sent His son to stand firm in the middle of these not so favorable conditions and forego himself for me and for you. This very Word knew that we weren’t quite cutting it on our own and so he left his rather warm existence and he got up and out, disabling our previously held notions of control. And he lives and dances in our midst every day—taking near hits, standing firm and un-phased as he endures lunges and taunts and jeers from unseen evil on our behalf, all to help us adeptly navigate this life, distracted as we are.

Perhaps it should be rather natural for us to thank him for his sacrifice. And trust him and defer to him each day as he guides us through.

I guess I say all of this so that the next time we collectively pass a sheriff or police officer or a crossing guard who is standing in the balance for us, making our commute just a little bit easier—maybe a smile will come when we think how close a certain Someone really is and how he took a thankless job on our behalf.

And who knows? We might just see a Harley parked nearby.

A Brief Interlude

I have a friend who writes for the Ossian Journal, a small paper from a town just south of Fort Wayne. She contributes under a column entitled "A View from the Cross-Road" and through it, she regularly has the opportunity to share her faith. I'm always intrigued by this, because for all of the joys that I experienced growing up in New Jersey (the Boss, the beach, the bagels), let me just say for the record--this sort of thing would never fly there. Got to love Indiana.

I'm always touched by what Peggy writes, but something about this latest piece really resonated with me. Perhaps I sensed she was speaking for me, or, maybe the simplicity of it all just hit me like a ton of bricks. Either way, I felt it was worth repeating here, as a brief interlude away from my wandering, rambling chapters.

I hope it blesses you as it did me.

A View From The Cross-Road
by Peggy Barnell

These Things I Know

The Christmas holiday always seems to put me in a reflective state of mind. In the middle of the hustle and bustle that comes with the season, there is for me, the desire to slow down and take stock, to assess the direction my life is headed and the person I have become. It's a natural thing, I think, as one year draws to a close and another begins. And it's a time to appreciate the basics that we sometimes take for granted - like family and friends and God's presence in our lives.

As I look back on twenty years of being a Christ-follower, I am thankful for the truths that He has illuminated for me, and for the tender mercy He has shown to me through the years. My hope is to never stop growing and maturing. But for the moment, I pause to consider a few of the things I have learned on my journey thus far.

I know that typically it is much easier to see God at work in our lives in hindsight, than it is to recognize His hand in our present circumstances. And He is too good to be interested in anything less than the entire and eternal perspective of our lives.

I know the Jesus of the bible is real. Life is no picnic. Following Jesus is sometimes difficult and painful, at other times it is pure joy - but it works for me, as well as for countless others. And I would not trade His presence in my life with anything else I could wish for.

I know God loves all people. He is not white or black or red or Baptist or Catholic or Republican or Democrat, or even American. We all study God through the eyes of our individual intellect, heritage and circumstance, but He is bigger than any of those factors. At times when I have believed I may have a little piece of God figured out, He rocks my world and reminds me in the process that He will blow the walls out of any boxed-in thinking that I might try to confine Him with.

I know Christmas is not merely a warm, fuzzy fable. The babe in the manger did not stay a baby. He grew into a strong man whose perfect life became the way for us to know God - and whose death and resurrection paved the way for our future in heaven.

I know that in nearly every situation, I have a choice in how I respond. And I know God is faithful to me even when I fail Him. I am so thankful for the mercy and patience He has shown to me throughout my life. I know that without Him, I would be lost.

Wishing you and yours a Merry Christmas and a blessed New Year. I pray that you know the peace that Jesus brings.

Isaiah 9: 6-7 For a child has been born - for us! The gift of a son - for us! He'll take over the running of the world. His name will be Amazing Counselor, Strong God, Eternal Father, Prince of Wholeness. His ruling authority will grow, and there'll be no limits to the wholeness he brings.