The other day I decided to make a "vision board" where I looked through magazines and found images that captured my desire and made a collage, to remind me of what I really want. One of the images I cut out was of a lion stalking his prey, and I thought it was an image of God. I told my therapist that I wanted God to stalk me down and kill the parts of me that needed to die. I had a day of prayer on Saturday, and I read Hosea. A lot of imagery came up from Hosea about God, the lion devouring his people. This was very comforting to me. I wanted to talk about this new image I have of God.
I want to talk today about the comforting wrath of God.
Hosea: God is speaking of judging the Northern Kingdom for its sin (of many kinds). Some people might know it as the book as the one where the prophet has to go marry the whore.
Hosea is reporting what God spoke concerning their sorry state. He is talking to the
Northern kingdom, but makes it clear that Judah is not exempt.
There are three main problems:
Problem 1: Bad Kings are leading the people into violent wars: This is taking place 734-732 BC at that time the Rezin king of Syria joined Pekah king of Israel in attacking the king of Judah. They wanted to replace Ahaz or force him to join their coalition against Tiglath-Pileser II of Assyria. Resin and Pekas forces killed 120,000 of Ahas troups and took 200,000 people prisoner. These people are relatives! Then Ahaz got revenge by making an alliance with Assyria. After the Assyrian king defeated Syria and Israel he required a heavy tax from Ahaz king of Judah.
Problem 2: Bad Priests who were supposed to be leading people to Yaweh are leading the people to false Gods. People are doing violence to God through idol worship and temple prostitution. Temple prostitution, worship of Baal and other Gods...
Problem 3: Bad prophets were not leading people into repentance, but told people lies about their status and importance. They were arrogant towards God and did violence to themselves in that. the people had hardened themselves, refused to admit their guilt, did not face their depravity. The prophets were not leading the people to repentance.
Starting In Chapter 5:
God first gives the leaders a warning…hear, pay attention, listen… God holds leaders responsible for misleading deceiving and trapping othrs with religious political and social ideas that do not come from God. Bad leaders are destroying relationships…between the people and others, themselves, and God.
The leaders are being predators. God describes the people’s actions by using a hunting analogy. God calls them snares and a net spread out.
They are rebels deep in slaughter (kings going to war)—violent towards others An atmosphere of intrigue, deception, entrapment and violence, each group is trying to control the political scene…the kings led the people into war.
Turned to prostitution (priests lead people into idolatry)---violent towards god
Israiels arrogance testifies against them (prophets telling the people lies…)---violent towards Self
This is the first time that God is compared to a wild animal.
The people they are in trouble. They are grasping at solutions. But the solution was not in wars, or unholy alliances. It was not in worship of idols, or the power of positive thinking and self-esteem exercises.
I want to focus on
Hosea 5:14-6:3
For I will be like a lion to Ephraim,
like a great lion to Judah.
I will tear them to pieces and go away;
I will carry them off, with no one to rescue them.
Then I will go back to my place
until they admit their guilt.
And they will seek my face;
in their misery they will earnestly seek me."
"Come, let us return to the LORD.
He has torn us to pieces
but he will heal us;
he has injured us
but he will bind up our wounds.
After two days he will revive us;
on the third day he will restore us,
that we may live in his presence.
Let us acknowledge the LORD;
let us press on to acknowledge him.
As surely as the sun rises,
he will appear;
he will come to us like the winter rains,
like the spring rains that water the earth."
God comes like a lion, and tears at his people. He goes back to his cave and waits for them to repent.
Three things to keep in mind.
1) God’s wrath isn’t a surprise. God warns the people and shows reluctance, but he will not allow his children to be harmed by bad leaders. So, God attacks those who are destroying good things…Gods wrath is a last resort. He warns, chastened them to wake them up, promised hope if they repent…then if all that fails, wrath.
2) God’s wrath is out of love. The purpose is to lead the people into a better relationship with him. God says now is the time for discipline...like a teacher disciplining students, God is bringing people back to his way of thinking through a painful process… God does not punish out of revenge. God's divine chastening of destruction and captivity will cause them to accept responsibility for their sins and realize that their only hope is to seek God. Isaiah 4:4 "The Lord will wash away the filth of the women of Zion; he will cleanse the bloodstains from Jerusalem by a spirit of judgment and a spirit of fire."
3) The duration of this period without God is limited only by the peoples’ unwillingness to seek God. God is powerful and dependable to respond to our repentance. The people have to acknowledge the Lord, and commit to knowing God in a covenant relationship. God is consistent and dependable…when and how he will heal and bandage are not specified.
God doesn’t just call himself a lion God describes himself as rot, or gangrene in the wounds of the people. Israel and Judah will be like injured soldiers whose wounds are festering with a terrible infection, which God won’t heal if they continue with their war plans. He describes himself as darkness and drought. When the people turn to him, they will experience healing, bandaging, dawn and seasonal rains.
You might be thinking that the wrath of God is just the Old Testament God. Jesus took on the wrath we deserve and we no longer have to face God’s wrath. I think that this is true. All of us (and all the parts of us) who submit to Christ and want to be covered are. But the NT talks about God’s wrath towards the parts that do not submit to this.
Romans 1:18 says that the wrath of God is being revealed from heaven against all the godlessness and wickedness of men who suppress the truth by their wickedness.
Romans 2:5 Moreover, because of your stubbornness and your unrepentant heart, you are storing up wrath against yourself for the day of God’s wrath.
Its kind of like Jesus is an umbrella, covering us. John 3:36 Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life, but whoever rejects the Son will not see life, for God's wrath remains on him." Romans 5:9 says “Since we have now been justified by his blood, how much more shall we be saved from God's wrath through him!”
But I think sometimes parts of us reject Christ’s covering. The bad leaders inside. If part of us is not under the umbrella—covered by Jesus’ sacrifice, than that part experiences God’s wrath.
Children will be safer after God gets through with the leaders. When our kings priests, parents are being bad, mean, beating kids, leading kids into idolatry, hurting kids. God protects kids by stopping the leaders. Gods people can’t get away with oppressing neighbors, flirting with other Gods, or living self centered lives which personal passions claim the highest priority. It does damage to relationships. Matthew 18:6 "But if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea."
Hosea 11:10 "They will follow the LORD; he will roar like a lion. When he roars, his children will come trembling from the west." Kids come to Jesus. Kids are covered. Kids do not need to be afraid of God’s wrath, because they know that God, like Aslan of Narnia, will protect them from evil leaders. Kids already know God is more powerful than them.
Revelation, which gives us a picture of what is happening in heaven even now, shows Christ on a white horse with a sword. He is destroying lots of stuff. What is he destroying? 1 Corinthians 15:24-28 "Then the end will come, when he hands over the kingdom to God the Father after he has destroyed all dominion, authority and power. For he must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet. The last enemy to be destroyed is death."
I believe the OT God is the same God. The OT God is angry. Our anger reflects God’s image.
I see it like this:
God Creates and Destroys
We create and destroy
But God creates good things and Destroys evil
We create evil things and Destroy good things.
God will destroy things that hurt his children. God will destroy things inside of us that are hurting the children inside of us.
Our culture refuses to accept a violent God, but we love violent movies, video games, and fight wars for the country. Maybe if we accepted a violent God we would stop needing so much external violence to reconcile our need for violence! If we refuse to accept a violent God, or bring the violent parts of us to battle with that God, who would crush those parts, we will play out our instinctual need to destroy externally, through violence towards ourselves, our relationship with God and others, instead of internally, in violently destroying evil inside of us, strongholds and principalities, etc.
God is like a doctor cutting out cancer. This is very comforting to me. I want God to violently kill my addictions, my unholy alliances, the crazy parts that insist on hurting kids inside of me.
Inside I’ve got this queen that insists on a kingdom of Chaos. No rules! Good queens protect the boundaries of their kingdom and don’t let bad stuff in. My queen lets bad stuff in all the time! Then the kids inside are beat up, and not safe.
I have priests that lead me into food worship, and worship of my emotions. Whatever I feel at a particular time becomes more true than any other reality. My priests point to my addictions for satisfaction…
I have prophets that tell me that my problem is I need to get involved with more, just meet the right guy, lose some weight, move, find a new job, and I will be better. Meanwhile, the little kids, the ones that need to be in healthy relationships with others, who need love and attention, that need to go to God with their needs, are neglected.
If I am willing to go to god with my violent parts, God will wound my bad leaders, leaving my prophets, kings and priests limping in order to remind them to follow him and be nice to kids inside. I think this is what happened this summer. God was mean to the bad leaders in me and the kids in me were glad.
In Chronicals of Narnia, the Silver Chair, this girl Jill is by a stream and wants a drink of water, but realizes there's a lion by the stream. He asks if she's thirsty, and she says she's dying of thirst. He says then drink. She asks if he would leave while she drinks. He growls. She says:
"Will you promise not to - do anything to me, if I do come?" said Jill.
"I make no promise", said the Lion.
Jill was so thirsty now that, without noticing it, she had come a step nearer.
"Do you eat girls?" she said.
"I have swallowed up girls and boys, women and men, kings and emperors, cities and realms," said the Lion. It didn't say this as if it were boasting, nor as if it were sorry, nor as if it were angry. It just said it.
"I daren't come and drink," said Jill.
"Then you will die of thirst," said the Lion.
"Oh dear!" said Jill, coming another step nearer. "I suppose I must go and look for another stream then."
"There is no other stream," said the Lion.
Here is my poem I wrote:
The Comfort of your Violence
Tear me to pieces and return to your lair,
Until in my misery I seek you
Slay me with thirst
until I ask for living water
Attack me and rip me open,
my heart is laid bare before you.
Rip me off of my throne
So I know the safety of being second.
Lurk in my path
when I wander from your protection
Drive me on the plow
With your easy yolk upon me.
Stalk me with your keen senses
there is nowhere I can hide from your presence
Strip me naked
and save me from a life of lies.
Wound me
So you can heal me
Crush the rebellion in my soul
I submit to your rule
Block my path with thorns
So I stop to remember your ways
Ruin my vines and fig trees
I stop thrashing enough to hear your tenderness
Separate my bones and marrow, pierce my heart
then I will know your unfailing love.
Roar like a Lion
Trembling, I come to the shepard.
Pound the nails into my wrists
I am crucified with you yet I live.
Yes, God is a lion, but in Hosea he is also many other things: In addition to the lion, he is a forgiving and romantic husband (chs. 2-3), a loving parent (11:1-4; 14:3-4), a healing physician (14:4 [Heb 14:5]), fresh dew and the source of all blessing (14:5, 8 [Heb 14:6, 9]). He also is described as a moth (5:13), a fowler who traps birds (7:12), and a farmer (11:4). Each of these metaphors contributes to our understanding of the nature of God and his activity. All of them give us a fuller picture of who he is. All of us, are different things to different people at different times, ideally according to the needs of the moment. If he must be a lion in your life now, maybe in the future he will be something else.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Where to Live?
Denver;
My macaroni and cheese.
All this sunshine and no water is unhealthy for me.
Everybody likes it but its hardly anyone's favorite food.
Midwesterners with their bland taste buds move here.
But mac n' cheese tastes great on a camping trip.
Puerto Escondito;
Fresh Fish caught from the Sea;
Salsa from local vegetables, tortillas made on the spot.
I just got done surfing.
I have no agenda except to drink out of a coconut on a beach hammock.
I have no job.
Minneapolis;
Hot dish.
Its not too impressive but its got everything you need.
Cheese, noodles, meet, salt, hot, melty, saucy.
Its hardy just like the kids playing hockey on frozen ponds
all winter...
even when its 20 below.
Chicago;
My Ruben sandwich.
Saurcraut takes time to make and gets better with age.
I think its Jewish but Russians like them too.
Old men eat Rubens in Martini bars
Rubens are delicious but I can't have them every day!
New York;
The chef's special sushi roll.
I can't predict what will be in it, but it will be an exciting party.
Fresh and stylish, presentation is important
I could eat it every day
Until I get the bill!
Ireland;
Lamb Stew
Cooked slowly in a kettle.
In a pub filled with old farmers, families
Guinness tastes good there.
It feels like home; but not mine.
Eugene;
Organic Vegan black bean burger on a sprouted, uncooked bun.
I enjoy it every time I eat it.
With all my vegan hipter, seek, witch doctor, homeless philosopher friends
But sometimes I want a big steak.
And my vegan hipster seek witch doctor homeless philosopher friends do not eat steak.
I guess I haven't found the perfect dish.
My macaroni and cheese.
All this sunshine and no water is unhealthy for me.
Everybody likes it but its hardly anyone's favorite food.
Midwesterners with their bland taste buds move here.
But mac n' cheese tastes great on a camping trip.
Puerto Escondito;
Fresh Fish caught from the Sea;
Salsa from local vegetables, tortillas made on the spot.
I just got done surfing.
I have no agenda except to drink out of a coconut on a beach hammock.
I have no job.
Minneapolis;
Hot dish.
Its not too impressive but its got everything you need.
Cheese, noodles, meet, salt, hot, melty, saucy.
Its hardy just like the kids playing hockey on frozen ponds
all winter...
even when its 20 below.
Chicago;
My Ruben sandwich.
Saurcraut takes time to make and gets better with age.
I think its Jewish but Russians like them too.
Old men eat Rubens in Martini bars
Rubens are delicious but I can't have them every day!
New York;
The chef's special sushi roll.
I can't predict what will be in it, but it will be an exciting party.
Fresh and stylish, presentation is important
I could eat it every day
Until I get the bill!
Ireland;
Lamb Stew
Cooked slowly in a kettle.
In a pub filled with old farmers, families
Guinness tastes good there.
It feels like home; but not mine.
Eugene;
Organic Vegan black bean burger on a sprouted, uncooked bun.
I enjoy it every time I eat it.
With all my vegan hipter, seek, witch doctor, homeless philosopher friends
But sometimes I want a big steak.
And my vegan hipster seek witch doctor homeless philosopher friends do not eat steak.
I guess I haven't found the perfect dish.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Hope....
Hope is a lasso.
My tool that keeps me from accelerating into a chasm of hate
I try not to lasso what cant be caught,
Or grab hold of something that will hurt me.
But I am not a skilled cowgirl.
I am riding a bucking bronco and my aim is poor.
All my catches have left me weary.
I lasso shiny razors of success that cut my chords
Or wolverine romances who gnash their teeth at me
I lasso rainbows of self esteem,
that are never where they seem to be.
I aim for needy children, and broken communities,
who consume my energy once I catch them.
I have caught insatiable apetites
Empty wins, fad diets that proved intolorable company
The kinds of peace that demand too much compromise.
Approval that slowly imprisons me.
Sometimes I have lassoed myself, trying to contain my wildness.
But in doing that i tied up hope.
I do not like roping and reining, but giving up brings despair.
There is a Cowboy who tries to lasso me
He would catch me if I let him.
He would let me catch him if I aimed
He would let me on his horse.
We could lasso affection, exhuberance, serenity.
If I caught him, or allowed myself to be caught
I risk only loss of control.
But I grip the reins too tight.
My tool that keeps me from accelerating into a chasm of hate
I try not to lasso what cant be caught,
Or grab hold of something that will hurt me.
But I am not a skilled cowgirl.
I am riding a bucking bronco and my aim is poor.
All my catches have left me weary.
I lasso shiny razors of success that cut my chords
Or wolverine romances who gnash their teeth at me
I lasso rainbows of self esteem,
that are never where they seem to be.
I aim for needy children, and broken communities,
who consume my energy once I catch them.
I have caught insatiable apetites
Empty wins, fad diets that proved intolorable company
The kinds of peace that demand too much compromise.
Approval that slowly imprisons me.
Sometimes I have lassoed myself, trying to contain my wildness.
But in doing that i tied up hope.
I do not like roping and reining, but giving up brings despair.
There is a Cowboy who tries to lasso me
He would catch me if I let him.
He would let me catch him if I aimed
He would let me on his horse.
We could lasso affection, exhuberance, serenity.
If I caught him, or allowed myself to be caught
I risk only loss of control.
But I grip the reins too tight.
Teaching....
New Teachers believe that their belief in kids will be enough.
They read "Love and Logic" or "Discipline with out Stress"
They planned out their whole first month.
In control, confident...ready to shape new minds
Like a carver who whittles at a block of aspen
to recreate the image in his mind
of eagle or bear.
Seasoned teachers wonder if they are making a difference
Ten workshops later, students are still struggling
Some seem to respond on good days.
But they have ceased fighting
Kids will do what they want, all we can do is offer.
Like a carver who sets the block of aspen on a shelf
until it asks to be carved.
Hardly anyone becomes a master teacher.
If they do, they have learned to feel the pulse of the group
To recognize shifts in motivation, and flow like water
Finding a path through the smallest cracks in dams of resistance
relentless, but subtle...the path forms slowly.
Like a carver who lets each block of aspen speak
Uses the knots and curves, and carves only what is waiting to be revealed.
They read "Love and Logic" or "Discipline with out Stress"
They planned out their whole first month.
In control, confident...ready to shape new minds
Like a carver who whittles at a block of aspen
to recreate the image in his mind
of eagle or bear.
Seasoned teachers wonder if they are making a difference
Ten workshops later, students are still struggling
Some seem to respond on good days.
But they have ceased fighting
Kids will do what they want, all we can do is offer.
Like a carver who sets the block of aspen on a shelf
until it asks to be carved.
Hardly anyone becomes a master teacher.
If they do, they have learned to feel the pulse of the group
To recognize shifts in motivation, and flow like water
Finding a path through the smallest cracks in dams of resistance
relentless, but subtle...the path forms slowly.
Like a carver who lets each block of aspen speak
Uses the knots and curves, and carves only what is waiting to be revealed.
Friday, August 7, 2009
What I want!
First, I want to know what I want, and stop settling for instant gratification. I want to look good in a bikini. I want to love being in my skin. I want to exude feminine mystique; like Sophia Loren, Rickie Lee Jones, Biance--other confident girls I know. I want to find a place--or life--that feels like home without being confining.
I want to build some roots. I want to focus on letting Jesus' love in, and giving love to others. I want that to be enough direction when it seems like that is all Jesus is saying. When God is more specific, I don't want to miss her instruction. I want God to dethrone me, to help me put to death the parts of me that demand that I get my way all the time.
I want the ocean, a washboard stomach, to surf every day. To feel confident about the direction I am traveling, to pay attention enough to hear whispers of the Holy. I want to enjoy the sound of my feet hitting the dirt. I want to find relief for my pain. I want Ireland inside of me (solidarity, rugged acceptance to reality, bawdy earthiness, childlike astonishment, presence, pride in a culture and community, organic connection to the land.)
I want to have a relationship with the masculine--with the parts of God that are simple, strong and secure. I want to find the parts in myself that sing about sensory experiences. I want to live through my instinct, like an elephant who is strong and wise, able to protect, bonded to family. Not predator or prey. I want to be calmed by the touch of Father God, to experience his watchful eye like a lion watches an antelope with the intent to capture--God, capture the parts of me that are so good at running.
I want romance without guilt or obsession about "where we are going." I want to trust, and become vulnerable only to the extent I am able to trust and respect the other. I want to experience companionship with a peer. I want to sit on a beach and enjoy a sunset in an old 1940's bathing suit feeling completely at ease with my company. I want to slowly work through projections and find that I like the real person in front of me even better than the one I made up. I want to have a romance with an "innocent criminal"--someone who is obedient to God but not to institutions of men. I want to ride through my dreams with a fellow dreamer on a dream bicycle built for two. I want a partner whose vision fuels my creativity.
I want to "mother" in some way, but I don't really want biological children. Maybe mentoring younger people or other Christians. I want to write the rest of my life. I want to taste and see that God is good, and enjoy food too. I want my bike to go on many adventures. I want my scars to have dignity, like knots on a cypress tree. Then I want to ride bikes still when I am an old lady. I want to learn to be astonished every day. And learn to do handstand pushups.
Thats about it.
I want to build some roots. I want to focus on letting Jesus' love in, and giving love to others. I want that to be enough direction when it seems like that is all Jesus is saying. When God is more specific, I don't want to miss her instruction. I want God to dethrone me, to help me put to death the parts of me that demand that I get my way all the time.
I want the ocean, a washboard stomach, to surf every day. To feel confident about the direction I am traveling, to pay attention enough to hear whispers of the Holy. I want to enjoy the sound of my feet hitting the dirt. I want to find relief for my pain. I want Ireland inside of me (solidarity, rugged acceptance to reality, bawdy earthiness, childlike astonishment, presence, pride in a culture and community, organic connection to the land.)
I want to have a relationship with the masculine--with the parts of God that are simple, strong and secure. I want to find the parts in myself that sing about sensory experiences. I want to live through my instinct, like an elephant who is strong and wise, able to protect, bonded to family. Not predator or prey. I want to be calmed by the touch of Father God, to experience his watchful eye like a lion watches an antelope with the intent to capture--God, capture the parts of me that are so good at running.
I want romance without guilt or obsession about "where we are going." I want to trust, and become vulnerable only to the extent I am able to trust and respect the other. I want to experience companionship with a peer. I want to sit on a beach and enjoy a sunset in an old 1940's bathing suit feeling completely at ease with my company. I want to slowly work through projections and find that I like the real person in front of me even better than the one I made up. I want to have a romance with an "innocent criminal"--someone who is obedient to God but not to institutions of men. I want to ride through my dreams with a fellow dreamer on a dream bicycle built for two. I want a partner whose vision fuels my creativity.
I want to "mother" in some way, but I don't really want biological children. Maybe mentoring younger people or other Christians. I want to write the rest of my life. I want to taste and see that God is good, and enjoy food too. I want my bike to go on many adventures. I want my scars to have dignity, like knots on a cypress tree. Then I want to ride bikes still when I am an old lady. I want to learn to be astonished every day. And learn to do handstand pushups.
Thats about it.
Too many Margaritas
"Here I am with my heart on the floor my love out the door," playing on the radio
Too many errands today. I watched half of the season of "The Office" and best of Mike Myers while cleaning my room.
Dina's advice; "Its not the end of enything its not the beginning of anything its a continuation; you were meant to participate in every part of it"--I hate that kind of advice.
The song; "I have nothing to show for, except some pictures I keep them in a box under my bed."
Its Sara's last night, we've all drunk too many margaritas, and I have ate too may M&Ms (Sara hid the rest).
Too many errands today. I watched half of the season of "The Office" and best of Mike Myers while cleaning my room.
Dina's advice; "Its not the end of enything its not the beginning of anything its a continuation; you were meant to participate in every part of it"--I hate that kind of advice.
The song; "I have nothing to show for, except some pictures I keep them in a box under my bed."
Its Sara's last night, we've all drunk too many margaritas, and I have ate too may M&Ms (Sara hid the rest).
Monday, August 3, 2009
Trash
I could write a whole book on my friend Trash. Trash grew up in Albany to an overbearing mother and an overaccomodating father. Mom was a nurse, dad was a community organizer. Trash was born to challenge expectations. In 8th grade, without his mother knowing, he rode the city bus down to the private Catholic military boy's school, took an entrance exam, and got a full-ride scholarship. His mother forbade him to attend. He would be socially awkward and she didn't want her boys fighting. Father said it was ok. So Trash attended school, and like his mother predicted, did not have a romantic relationships with a girl until he was 27. His parents don't know about any of his relationships, and think that he is gay. He refuses to clear it up.
I met Trash when I did an exchange at the Air Force Academy. Trash is brilliant but hates meeting expectations, so he was a classic underachiever. He double majored in Computer Science and Mathematics. I met him in a math class; or maybe Officer's Christian Fellowship. (He was a guilt-ridden Catholic back then). Any chance he got, he climbed Colorado 14ers in the dark, or drove too fast in his Miata. (He had several warrants for his arrest in various states for speeding--all of which he had to clear up before he could get top secret clearance.) Trash was born for cold weather. He took me and a few friends to Pikes Peak in the winter, in the dark. He slipped across the icy trail in a t-shirt and shorts! When he was at combat survival school (a school where people learn to handle torture) Trash was the only pilot who did not respond to lengthy exposure to frigid water. Trash wore a pair of white long underwear most of the way up Mt. McKinley. The heat is so intolerable to him that when Trash got stationed in Vegas and hated it so much he had to drink 7 beers a night just to fall asleep.
Trash and I decided to ride our bikes across country when we graduated. On the way to the airport, Trash crashed his Miata with his bike on it. He hitched a ride with the Tow Truck who brought him to the airport. So, Trash showed up the night before our ride with a broken bike. We raced across town to the one bike store that might still be open; when we got there, they had just closed! As desperate people do, we threatened bad Karma and intense badgering at the front door if the cleaning employees didn't help us. They reluctantly let us in and fixed the basics on Trash's bike. The next day we started riding from the Oregon Coast, and rode 180 miles through the coastal mountains and the Cascades in the pouring rain. When we were high enough in the cascades it started to snow. I experienced my first intense bout of hypothermia. At first I was cold, shivering convulsively. As we continued up the mountain pass, I began to turn a little blue. It was hard to tell if I was riding uphill or downhill. Trash said I started to weave and when he stopped me, I said that I was warming up. He knew we were in trouble then, and flagged my mom who was supporting us on our first leg. I shivered for four hours in a hot tub. Trash said many people would pay money to see a person get hypothermia. He thought it was interesting.
When we left the second day, I made my mom drive us to the exact point we got into the car, just to make sure we covered every square inch of the journey. That day Trash's wheel broke, and we barely made it the nearest bike shop. The beginning was the worst. Our fortunes improved the rest of the trip. For 28 days we averaged 120 miles a day. In each of the towns we planned to stop in, we had contacted friends of friends, parents from the parents clubs of the Air Force and Naval Academy, and loose acquaintances. So we had a place to stay each night. I had this theory before the trip that romance was simply a matter of presence, and if two people spent enough time together they would eventually become attracted to each other. Now, I don't think that is true. After five days, I was sick of hearing about the Politics surrounding a rare species of butterfly, how to write a computer program in C++, musings on the sociology of bovine communities, the height of corn as it varied from state to state. Back then, I didn't like hearing about all Trash's obscure fields of expertise. Now, I am more interested.
Trash is not really his name. But Trash is a name he was given once. When we got to Boston on our ride, one my friend’s parents (she is a little loony sometimes) was trying to recall his name. She burst out in recollection, "Trash, that's right". Both Trash and I liked it. Trash kind of fits him.
Trash likes to be nude. Not in a sexual, sensual, perverse, provocative way. In the same way that this old man in Italy who claimed a home in an abandoned railroad tunnel on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea between two towns along the Cinque Terra. Trash found out about a nudist colony in France with a grocery store--he couldn't wait to grocery shop naked. One time Trash got beaten with a phonebook by cops in New Orleans because he flashed some ladies for beads. Trash has shown up to a good many parties naked. Trash also applied to be a male stripper while living in Vegas (He figured he may as well make a living doing something he liked, and he is very egalitarian...always contributing to the fight for equality of men and women.) The strip joints asked if he could sing and dance. "We do dance numbers here...it’s a little different then female stripping where girls just show up and do their thing." When Trash said he could neither sing nor dance, they had a good excuse to turn him down (although a few did mention he might want to bulk up a bit if he wanted to be considered in the future--He is 6'2" and 165lbs) They didn't say anything about his disproportionately large feet, hands and nose (maybe they believed that was evidence of the size of his package). Trash settled for using his free time in Vegas building a plane out of metal scraps.
My favorite story about Trash takes place on his first tour to Afghanistan as a rescue pilot. Trash had time on his hands, and needed to get his mind off the heat, so he researched the process for making alcohol. He discovered an ingenious process for making grain alcohol in a wartime situation. He first stole yeast from the chow hall. He fermented sugar water with the yeast outside his tent in the 140 degree Afghani sun for two weeks. He then acquired two buckets. One was large and had a lid, and the other was lidless and fit inside the large bucket. He placed the smaller bucket in the larger bucket and filled the smaller bucket with the fermented sugar water. He ordered a fish tank heater online, placed the fish tank heater in the small bucket. He then placed the whole contraption in the refrigerator. As the fermented sugar water was heated with the fish tank heater, the alcohol evaporated. It then condensed on the inside of the lid of the larger bucket, cooled, and the droplets rolled down the edges of the larger bucket and collected at the bottom. This process of distillation was then repeated a second time, producing 140 proof hard liquor. Trash’s liquor made him one of the most powerful men in Afghanistan. He now had the ultimate bargaining tool. Among the many things Trash gained possession of was a 6-month shipment of Otis Spunkmeyer muffins which had been sent to the Chow Hall. Trash used the canvas from torn down tents to make mini-parachutes. He then loaded up the muffins in trash bags, tied the parachutes to them, and dropped the muffins from his Helo as he performed low-flying operations over Afghani villages. Trash called his actions “Operation Peace Muffin.” Evidence supports the fact that his operations had a huge impact on American-Afghani relations. Previously, Trash’s crew had reported hostile reception from the villagers, as the helo was frequently the target of rocks and sticks. Once Operation Peace Muffin was in effect, villagers greeted American helos with great joy, waiting for the manna from heaven.
Trash has crossed the country by bike, train, motorcycle, car, and plane. He is good at all forms of transportation, swimming, boating and running too, only you can't cross the country swimming or boating, and he hasn't had time to run it. Since our cross-country ride Trash has come to Colorado to climb the 14ers. He always invites me even though I am much slower than him. The first one we did was Bierstadt. Its only 3.1 miles round trip, making it the easiest 14er. Trash and I did it in the middle of winter, though. Under the cover of the snow, these 2.5 foot bushes were buried. For five hours we wrestled our snow shoes out of the bush branches underneath us, to reach the summit. Trash had forgotten his winter coat, and was in a long underwear shirt. On the way down, despite my insecure protests (I trusted Trash’s experience, if not his judgment) Trash kept taking us left, left, left all the way down. When we had reached the base, we were 180 degrees from my car, and nightfall was approaching! We had no more food or water, and couldn’t see in front of us. Somehow we found my car after 10 hours of groping in the dark.
Another time we climbed Lincoln. After the Bierstadt trip, I was concerned I would not have enough grace for the chaos that I would inevitably experience hanging out with Trash. Driving up to the mountains to meet him, I prayed that I would have the grace to treat Trash with respect and kindness. I imagined that prayer being answered by Trash doing something I thought lacked any common sense, while I brushed it aside with a tinkling laugh like Audrey Hepburn. Instead, after we climbed the mountain and returned to our base camp, I felt really sick from the altitude. While Trash cooked dinner, I went inside Trashes $500 tent to lie down. My nausea felt worse by the time he finally joined me, and I asked if he had a plastic bag just in case. While he looked, I projectile vomited all over his felt-lined tent, his $800 sleeping bag, his face. All Trash said was, “Mmmm, I was cold and now I am warm! Plus it smells like pizza!” We had to pack up the base camp in the dark, wrap up the barfy top-of-the line gear, and hike back to my truck. I then thought I lost my cell phone, and made Trash trapse back up to base camp with me to find it. I finally found my phone as I emptied my car out after we returned. I suppose my prayer was answered. It was easy to be gracious to Trash, because he was the most gracious person to ever be barfed on.
Trash is an artist genius computer programmer. He wrote a program for the Air Force that spits out awards, and wrote a program for his colonel’s wife that helped her complete her graduate work. He does it for free—I guess that gives him a little wiggle room when it comes to meeting Air Force expectations. For instance, during the work day, he alone drinks all the beer left in the squadron refrigerator (which is filled at the rate of one 6 pack from every student going on a check ride). On The last climbing trip I went on with Trash, he brought two bottles of wine in Nalgene bottles to enjoy at base camp.
In Japan, Trash lives out in town with a housing allowance. One of the stipulations is that he can not sublet his apartment. So he has two Japanese women living there rent free in exchange for their cooking, cleaning and companionship. As one can imagine, most in Trash's command believe that Trash rules a harem of Japanese women. Trash never bothers to clear up rumors. So, Trash’s parents continue to think he is gay, and Trash’s grandparents gossip about all the women he goes on camping trips with.
I am so grateful for Trash's last visit to CO! I was in the throes of despair when he forced me to climb Snow Mass with him and a girl friend of his. I met them in Aspen, and we completed a fairly leisurely 3-day, 25 mile round trip summit. I had a really good time. The first day, getting out there, I was so down. Once I got going, endorphins kicked in, and I felt better. It was really low key; no pressure, and a slow pace. We hiked 10 miles in and pitched a tent at Snow Mass lake. Then the next day we climbed Snow Mass. It was really beautiful and dangerous. We got caught in a hail storm at the top and both me and Trash got electrocuted a little bit..adrenaline always helps depression. I was forced out of my funk and it was really pretty. Plus we had mac-n-cheese-tuna dinner with red wine the first night, and tortilla soup with Trash's patented couscous, raisin, almond, chicken breast, cracker side dish the second night. Trash and I were the only ones to summit due to a sudden hail storm early afternoon. I might not always trust Trash's sense of safety, but I always trust his sense of adventure. After we climbed up the steep precipice to the top,I stood up, getting just a tiny bit electrocuted. When I sat back down, my hair stuck straight up. We downed a salami, sheep Parmesan, blueberry bagel sandwich and returned, tennis shoes slipping on the hail-littered boulders. Trash's bald head got just a little electrocuted as we started down. We slid down snow fields on the way down; me on my butt, Trash skiing on his unusually large feat. Both Trash and I agreed the storm was one of the most amazing beauties we had ever seen. The way the storm rolled in on us, then over us, then rolled below us reminded me of the Holy. Then, after stopping at Trash' favorite dive diner on the way home, we saw a beautiful rainbow.
Where will Trash’s life take him, once he is released from the shackles of his Air Force commitment? First, somewhere cold. He wants to finish is plane, become an airplane mechanic, a hairdresser (they are really the best therapists—plus they hear the best stories) A bush pilot, an aviation lawyer, an engineer, contractor, consultant, computer repairman/programmer, and car mechanic. Trash will probably set up a storefront in Northern Alaska with little wooden signs advertising all of his services. I will not live in Alaska. But maybe Trash will give me permission to write the book!
I met Trash when I did an exchange at the Air Force Academy. Trash is brilliant but hates meeting expectations, so he was a classic underachiever. He double majored in Computer Science and Mathematics. I met him in a math class; or maybe Officer's Christian Fellowship. (He was a guilt-ridden Catholic back then). Any chance he got, he climbed Colorado 14ers in the dark, or drove too fast in his Miata. (He had several warrants for his arrest in various states for speeding--all of which he had to clear up before he could get top secret clearance.) Trash was born for cold weather. He took me and a few friends to Pikes Peak in the winter, in the dark. He slipped across the icy trail in a t-shirt and shorts! When he was at combat survival school (a school where people learn to handle torture) Trash was the only pilot who did not respond to lengthy exposure to frigid water. Trash wore a pair of white long underwear most of the way up Mt. McKinley. The heat is so intolerable to him that when Trash got stationed in Vegas and hated it so much he had to drink 7 beers a night just to fall asleep.
Trash and I decided to ride our bikes across country when we graduated. On the way to the airport, Trash crashed his Miata with his bike on it. He hitched a ride with the Tow Truck who brought him to the airport. So, Trash showed up the night before our ride with a broken bike. We raced across town to the one bike store that might still be open; when we got there, they had just closed! As desperate people do, we threatened bad Karma and intense badgering at the front door if the cleaning employees didn't help us. They reluctantly let us in and fixed the basics on Trash's bike. The next day we started riding from the Oregon Coast, and rode 180 miles through the coastal mountains and the Cascades in the pouring rain. When we were high enough in the cascades it started to snow. I experienced my first intense bout of hypothermia. At first I was cold, shivering convulsively. As we continued up the mountain pass, I began to turn a little blue. It was hard to tell if I was riding uphill or downhill. Trash said I started to weave and when he stopped me, I said that I was warming up. He knew we were in trouble then, and flagged my mom who was supporting us on our first leg. I shivered for four hours in a hot tub. Trash said many people would pay money to see a person get hypothermia. He thought it was interesting.
When we left the second day, I made my mom drive us to the exact point we got into the car, just to make sure we covered every square inch of the journey. That day Trash's wheel broke, and we barely made it the nearest bike shop. The beginning was the worst. Our fortunes improved the rest of the trip. For 28 days we averaged 120 miles a day. In each of the towns we planned to stop in, we had contacted friends of friends, parents from the parents clubs of the Air Force and Naval Academy, and loose acquaintances. So we had a place to stay each night. I had this theory before the trip that romance was simply a matter of presence, and if two people spent enough time together they would eventually become attracted to each other. Now, I don't think that is true. After five days, I was sick of hearing about the Politics surrounding a rare species of butterfly, how to write a computer program in C++, musings on the sociology of bovine communities, the height of corn as it varied from state to state. Back then, I didn't like hearing about all Trash's obscure fields of expertise. Now, I am more interested.
Trash is not really his name. But Trash is a name he was given once. When we got to Boston on our ride, one my friend’s parents (she is a little loony sometimes) was trying to recall his name. She burst out in recollection, "Trash, that's right". Both Trash and I liked it. Trash kind of fits him.
Trash likes to be nude. Not in a sexual, sensual, perverse, provocative way. In the same way that this old man in Italy who claimed a home in an abandoned railroad tunnel on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea between two towns along the Cinque Terra. Trash found out about a nudist colony in France with a grocery store--he couldn't wait to grocery shop naked. One time Trash got beaten with a phonebook by cops in New Orleans because he flashed some ladies for beads. Trash has shown up to a good many parties naked. Trash also applied to be a male stripper while living in Vegas (He figured he may as well make a living doing something he liked, and he is very egalitarian...always contributing to the fight for equality of men and women.) The strip joints asked if he could sing and dance. "We do dance numbers here...it’s a little different then female stripping where girls just show up and do their thing." When Trash said he could neither sing nor dance, they had a good excuse to turn him down (although a few did mention he might want to bulk up a bit if he wanted to be considered in the future--He is 6'2" and 165lbs) They didn't say anything about his disproportionately large feet, hands and nose (maybe they believed that was evidence of the size of his package). Trash settled for using his free time in Vegas building a plane out of metal scraps.
My favorite story about Trash takes place on his first tour to Afghanistan as a rescue pilot. Trash had time on his hands, and needed to get his mind off the heat, so he researched the process for making alcohol. He discovered an ingenious process for making grain alcohol in a wartime situation. He first stole yeast from the chow hall. He fermented sugar water with the yeast outside his tent in the 140 degree Afghani sun for two weeks. He then acquired two buckets. One was large and had a lid, and the other was lidless and fit inside the large bucket. He placed the smaller bucket in the larger bucket and filled the smaller bucket with the fermented sugar water. He ordered a fish tank heater online, placed the fish tank heater in the small bucket. He then placed the whole contraption in the refrigerator. As the fermented sugar water was heated with the fish tank heater, the alcohol evaporated. It then condensed on the inside of the lid of the larger bucket, cooled, and the droplets rolled down the edges of the larger bucket and collected at the bottom. This process of distillation was then repeated a second time, producing 140 proof hard liquor. Trash’s liquor made him one of the most powerful men in Afghanistan. He now had the ultimate bargaining tool. Among the many things Trash gained possession of was a 6-month shipment of Otis Spunkmeyer muffins which had been sent to the Chow Hall. Trash used the canvas from torn down tents to make mini-parachutes. He then loaded up the muffins in trash bags, tied the parachutes to them, and dropped the muffins from his Helo as he performed low-flying operations over Afghani villages. Trash called his actions “Operation Peace Muffin.” Evidence supports the fact that his operations had a huge impact on American-Afghani relations. Previously, Trash’s crew had reported hostile reception from the villagers, as the helo was frequently the target of rocks and sticks. Once Operation Peace Muffin was in effect, villagers greeted American helos with great joy, waiting for the manna from heaven.
Trash has crossed the country by bike, train, motorcycle, car, and plane. He is good at all forms of transportation, swimming, boating and running too, only you can't cross the country swimming or boating, and he hasn't had time to run it. Since our cross-country ride Trash has come to Colorado to climb the 14ers. He always invites me even though I am much slower than him. The first one we did was Bierstadt. Its only 3.1 miles round trip, making it the easiest 14er. Trash and I did it in the middle of winter, though. Under the cover of the snow, these 2.5 foot bushes were buried. For five hours we wrestled our snow shoes out of the bush branches underneath us, to reach the summit. Trash had forgotten his winter coat, and was in a long underwear shirt. On the way down, despite my insecure protests (I trusted Trash’s experience, if not his judgment) Trash kept taking us left, left, left all the way down. When we had reached the base, we were 180 degrees from my car, and nightfall was approaching! We had no more food or water, and couldn’t see in front of us. Somehow we found my car after 10 hours of groping in the dark.
Another time we climbed Lincoln. After the Bierstadt trip, I was concerned I would not have enough grace for the chaos that I would inevitably experience hanging out with Trash. Driving up to the mountains to meet him, I prayed that I would have the grace to treat Trash with respect and kindness. I imagined that prayer being answered by Trash doing something I thought lacked any common sense, while I brushed it aside with a tinkling laugh like Audrey Hepburn. Instead, after we climbed the mountain and returned to our base camp, I felt really sick from the altitude. While Trash cooked dinner, I went inside Trashes $500 tent to lie down. My nausea felt worse by the time he finally joined me, and I asked if he had a plastic bag just in case. While he looked, I projectile vomited all over his felt-lined tent, his $800 sleeping bag, his face. All Trash said was, “Mmmm, I was cold and now I am warm! Plus it smells like pizza!” We had to pack up the base camp in the dark, wrap up the barfy top-of-the line gear, and hike back to my truck. I then thought I lost my cell phone, and made Trash trapse back up to base camp with me to find it. I finally found my phone as I emptied my car out after we returned. I suppose my prayer was answered. It was easy to be gracious to Trash, because he was the most gracious person to ever be barfed on.
Trash is an artist genius computer programmer. He wrote a program for the Air Force that spits out awards, and wrote a program for his colonel’s wife that helped her complete her graduate work. He does it for free—I guess that gives him a little wiggle room when it comes to meeting Air Force expectations. For instance, during the work day, he alone drinks all the beer left in the squadron refrigerator (which is filled at the rate of one 6 pack from every student going on a check ride). On The last climbing trip I went on with Trash, he brought two bottles of wine in Nalgene bottles to enjoy at base camp.
In Japan, Trash lives out in town with a housing allowance. One of the stipulations is that he can not sublet his apartment. So he has two Japanese women living there rent free in exchange for their cooking, cleaning and companionship. As one can imagine, most in Trash's command believe that Trash rules a harem of Japanese women. Trash never bothers to clear up rumors. So, Trash’s parents continue to think he is gay, and Trash’s grandparents gossip about all the women he goes on camping trips with.
I am so grateful for Trash's last visit to CO! I was in the throes of despair when he forced me to climb Snow Mass with him and a girl friend of his. I met them in Aspen, and we completed a fairly leisurely 3-day, 25 mile round trip summit. I had a really good time. The first day, getting out there, I was so down. Once I got going, endorphins kicked in, and I felt better. It was really low key; no pressure, and a slow pace. We hiked 10 miles in and pitched a tent at Snow Mass lake. Then the next day we climbed Snow Mass. It was really beautiful and dangerous. We got caught in a hail storm at the top and both me and Trash got electrocuted a little bit..adrenaline always helps depression. I was forced out of my funk and it was really pretty. Plus we had mac-n-cheese-tuna dinner with red wine the first night, and tortilla soup with Trash's patented couscous, raisin, almond, chicken breast, cracker side dish the second night. Trash and I were the only ones to summit due to a sudden hail storm early afternoon. I might not always trust Trash's sense of safety, but I always trust his sense of adventure. After we climbed up the steep precipice to the top,I stood up, getting just a tiny bit electrocuted. When I sat back down, my hair stuck straight up. We downed a salami, sheep Parmesan, blueberry bagel sandwich and returned, tennis shoes slipping on the hail-littered boulders. Trash's bald head got just a little electrocuted as we started down. We slid down snow fields on the way down; me on my butt, Trash skiing on his unusually large feat. Both Trash and I agreed the storm was one of the most amazing beauties we had ever seen. The way the storm rolled in on us, then over us, then rolled below us reminded me of the Holy. Then, after stopping at Trash' favorite dive diner on the way home, we saw a beautiful rainbow.
Where will Trash’s life take him, once he is released from the shackles of his Air Force commitment? First, somewhere cold. He wants to finish is plane, become an airplane mechanic, a hairdresser (they are really the best therapists—plus they hear the best stories) A bush pilot, an aviation lawyer, an engineer, contractor, consultant, computer repairman/programmer, and car mechanic. Trash will probably set up a storefront in Northern Alaska with little wooden signs advertising all of his services. I will not live in Alaska. But maybe Trash will give me permission to write the book!
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Bicycles
Are bikes like their owners?
Some bikes are top of the line, aerodynamic carbon fiber bikes with titanium components. They are the fastest of all the bikes, but whole identity is wrapped up in their appearance. Soon they will be an old hand-me-down and cease to have identity in their own minds.
Some bikes just want to have fun. Bright colored cruisers with baskets and horns, and chrome fenders. They do not move with a purpose though, and don't get used often. They get to go parks and participate in parades, but they don't get to do real work.
The family bike is usually moderately priced, sturdy, able to pull a baby wagon, hybrid, not really good at anything but pretty good at a lot of things. After all, bikes have to make some sacrifices when they have a family.
Adventure bikes have huge shocks to tolerate a lot of pain. They are only happy on the edge, and get worn out the quickest. Joint replacements are common. These adrenaline junkies who were made for the edges of cliffs.
Recycled bikes make the best of whats around. "It is what it is" is their motto. There is no sense reaching for the stars. Instead of needing to be the best, recycled bikes do the best with what they have.
Vintage classics get cooler with age. They are slow, and don't try to impress anyone, but get along with all bikes. They are not always excited about getting out of the house, but when they do, they get the job done. They often get passed down. They are interested in their legacy.
Track bikes are hip and impractial. I tried one for a while, but I ran into a missionary riding one downtown. I guess I am not that hip.
My bike is a fancy frankenstine bike with half mountain bike and half road bike components. It cost my life's savings. It can fold up into a suitcase, and likes to travel abroad. It is ridden every day of the year. When you look at it its not much to see. But it is the only one of its kind, and very unique and special.
Some bikes are top of the line, aerodynamic carbon fiber bikes with titanium components. They are the fastest of all the bikes, but whole identity is wrapped up in their appearance. Soon they will be an old hand-me-down and cease to have identity in their own minds.
Some bikes just want to have fun. Bright colored cruisers with baskets and horns, and chrome fenders. They do not move with a purpose though, and don't get used often. They get to go parks and participate in parades, but they don't get to do real work.
The family bike is usually moderately priced, sturdy, able to pull a baby wagon, hybrid, not really good at anything but pretty good at a lot of things. After all, bikes have to make some sacrifices when they have a family.
Adventure bikes have huge shocks to tolerate a lot of pain. They are only happy on the edge, and get worn out the quickest. Joint replacements are common. These adrenaline junkies who were made for the edges of cliffs.
Recycled bikes make the best of whats around. "It is what it is" is their motto. There is no sense reaching for the stars. Instead of needing to be the best, recycled bikes do the best with what they have.
Vintage classics get cooler with age. They are slow, and don't try to impress anyone, but get along with all bikes. They are not always excited about getting out of the house, but when they do, they get the job done. They often get passed down. They are interested in their legacy.
Track bikes are hip and impractial. I tried one for a while, but I ran into a missionary riding one downtown. I guess I am not that hip.
My bike is a fancy frankenstine bike with half mountain bike and half road bike components. It cost my life's savings. It can fold up into a suitcase, and likes to travel abroad. It is ridden every day of the year. When you look at it its not much to see. But it is the only one of its kind, and very unique and special.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Harmonica
Anyone can play the harmonica.
Most can get good at the harmonica in a year if they practice.
One time I jumped off the Pirates of the Carabean ride at Disneyland and slowly played a pirate tune as boats passed. Even though I was dressed in plain clothes, tourists thought I was really a mechanical pirate. Pirates love harmonicas.
Bob Dylan is a poet. His harmonica plays a poem. Wavering, whining about the loneliness of the open road and love lost. Whistling camp fires, and carrying the listeners forward to the rythm of a locomotive. Tramps love to play harmonicas in rail cars.
Anyone can afford a harmonica. Thats why slaves played them. Call and response, blues tunes are carried by the harmonica. Most of the time it is an intermittent sound. Like an old grandpa piping out wisdom in a salty vernacular.
My own harmonica is rusty from neglect.
Most can get good at the harmonica in a year if they practice.
One time I jumped off the Pirates of the Carabean ride at Disneyland and slowly played a pirate tune as boats passed. Even though I was dressed in plain clothes, tourists thought I was really a mechanical pirate. Pirates love harmonicas.
Bob Dylan is a poet. His harmonica plays a poem. Wavering, whining about the loneliness of the open road and love lost. Whistling camp fires, and carrying the listeners forward to the rythm of a locomotive. Tramps love to play harmonicas in rail cars.
Anyone can afford a harmonica. Thats why slaves played them. Call and response, blues tunes are carried by the harmonica. Most of the time it is an intermittent sound. Like an old grandpa piping out wisdom in a salty vernacular.
My own harmonica is rusty from neglect.
Heavenly Parent
Jesus showed friendship, sacrifice. He put up with crap. He experienced intense pain and died. Jesus is is repped good pastors I have had. Always my advocate, always gently prodding, like a good shepard. I know Jesus's empathy and comraderie.
The holy spirit is like the storm that rushed in on us on the top of Snow Mass, dumping hail, radiating static electricity, rushing down into the valley below us. The holy spirit is in me, prodding me to pray, to say sorry I hurt you, to go to target today to get a CD player to replace the one that I broke.
God the Father is repped by my earthly fathers. My dad was loving, supportive, enthusiastic, undertanding. I can tell him anything and he will still love me.
But I don't know the God of purpose, who gives good counsel. I do not know the God who guides me in the right paths. I do not know the God who pursues me, and somehow created me to want precicely what he intends to give me. This same Heavenly father refuses to give me things that are not good, even if I beg for them.
Here is the God I do not know:
God who delights in me
God who loves revealing himself to me.
The God who pursues me
The God who desires me
The God who brings me Joy
The God who protects me
The God who guides me
The God who counsels me
The God who romances me
The God who defends me
The God who cares for me
The God who shows me affection
The God who is eager to receive me.
The holy spirit is like the storm that rushed in on us on the top of Snow Mass, dumping hail, radiating static electricity, rushing down into the valley below us. The holy spirit is in me, prodding me to pray, to say sorry I hurt you, to go to target today to get a CD player to replace the one that I broke.
God the Father is repped by my earthly fathers. My dad was loving, supportive, enthusiastic, undertanding. I can tell him anything and he will still love me.
But I don't know the God of purpose, who gives good counsel. I do not know the God who guides me in the right paths. I do not know the God who pursues me, and somehow created me to want precicely what he intends to give me. This same Heavenly father refuses to give me things that are not good, even if I beg for them.
Here is the God I do not know:
God who delights in me
God who loves revealing himself to me.
The God who pursues me
The God who desires me
The God who brings me Joy
The God who protects me
The God who guides me
The God who counsels me
The God who romances me
The God who defends me
The God who cares for me
The God who shows me affection
The God who is eager to receive me.
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