Doing

The feeling that I have to do something to be someone is crippling. And it's a lie.

Truthfully, we were meant to rule, meant to sit upon the thrones of an unbroken Earth. In the mystery of that all but forgotten dream, men and women act together for the good of all things: soil, plant, ocean, animal, person, cosmos - all things.

Yet that is a dream, no, a nightmare. All of time pushes that memory on us. We know what we were made of and made for, at least if we mine deeply enough into ourselves, we know. But because we refuse to accept the Way back to real accomplishment - the kind that does good out of who we are, not for the sake of becoming good - we only seek to do great things in order to silence the nightmare that whispers we've failed.

And of course we have failed. Read one news article on the BBC, or any other news site about the state of the nations, and prove to me we haven't.

And of course I have failed. Shadow me for one day, or half a day, and note how I give in to bitterness and anger, and prove to me I haven't.

I have spurned the throne I was made to sit upon, and so have you.

The paradox is we attempt to rebuild that throne, though we use materials that melt in the noonday sun - really, by noon I'm too tired to hold up the mask of respectability I've constructed to wear in front of my students and my children; I wilt under the heat from heaven, and by the end of the day I'm sitting in the pool of my pseudo-throne.

Then, if I listen hard enough and submit to Christ, I stop doing for my own sake - I even stop doing anything at all. I'm still. The Voice I know reminds me of what He's making me, of who I already am in Him: His.

I see the throne I have broken; He's rebuilding it.

And on that day, the one when the dead will no longer be dead, He will finish His work so I can resume mine - and I will be fully equipped to do what He intended for me to do in the first place.

Z is for Z

is for Z.

There is a beginning - we are fresh, excited, and willing.

There is an end - we are worn out, empty, and dragging.

There was an A. Words flowed. Now Z. ...

We don't like to talk much about endings, do we? Trying to end a book well is not only difficult as a writer, but it's sad too. The experience with characters as they develop is one we want to continue. As a reader, a good book, one that traps me in its pages whether I'm holding it or not, is emotional to finish - I want to know what happens to Frodo and Sam, but I'd also like to keep reading perpetually. It's as though they die when the book is over!

Saying goodbye to people, especially due to a move or a death, is painful too. So much so it can seem unnatural. For the longest time after my grandpa died, especially after our first child was born, I would have thoughts like, "Oh, I've got to tell grandpa!" And for a moment he was still alive.

W is for Wind

is for Wind.

The obvious nature of this post won't be so obvious to everyone. My family and I live on the plains, and to go a day without wind is unusual.

My mind ends up personifying the wind, whether breeze or gale, and yesterday the boys and I played under a large cottonwood tree - the wind blowing hard. A few times I looked up and listened to the shaking leaves, it sounded like clapping hands. I'm looking forward to when that same tree lets its cottonseed go; if the wind is in attendance, it will seem like snow.

Not only does the wind seem to make human the things around us, it should also remind us of what gave us life in the beginning.

V is for Vapor

is for Vapor.

Every once in a while I'll catch it on my way to work: the vapor rising over the green wheat. I want to stop and walk through it, but I'm usually late. I suppose it's one of those moments, a Robert Frost moment, "...The woods are lovely, dark, and deep/But I have promises to keep..."

Do you have those moments? Something of beauty calls you into it, yet heeding the call is all but impossible - or it seems that way. When the vapor rises from the ground, I've seen it in the early evening lately too, I want to melt into it.

T is for Trees

is for Trees.

This morning I'm struck by the fact that the T looks like a tree, especially the way it hangs over the r above. I can imagine the r as a shade loving plant, or a nap-taker rocking in a hammock.

I'm struggling to write this post because I know it will be inadequate; there are too many things to say about trees, and not a day passes that I don't admire them no matter the season.

Even though I can't get enough shade, and the warm months are easier for me, I am learning the raw beauty of bare branches. And when those branches begin to warm in the spring air and sap runs to their tips, the color change is in motion before flowers have a chance to win my imagination - that is good for the eyes.

N is for Names

is for Names.

Well, what's in a name? Would a rose by any other name smell as sweet? Perhaps.

Yet there's a phenomenon when something is named, especially in people - they tend to become what they're called, they grow into that name. It could be the name they received at birth, it could be the name their friends give them at school or in play, or worse, it could be the name a bully has crafted for them.

There are exceptions to be sure, but we will become what we're called if we believe those who are naming us. It helps, too, to know what your name means before you believe it.

J is for Jesus

is for Jesus.

(If you haven't read H is for Home, you may want to start there - this post will function as a part two.)

I suspect there will be many posts today about Jesus, and rightfully so. There are a million things to say about him, but I'll try and stick to one: this Man-God is what we ache for.

Throughout our lives we will try to fill that certain hole with whatever we can cram into it, and many of us even choose valuable things - like family and the idea of home. That idea is basically peace. We want to be at peace through belonging, security, and happiness. Yet even if we attain a wonderful house-full of family - loving family - that house is still only a house.

If we can't gain a home, a true home, why do we want one?

G is for George

is for George.

More specifically, St. George, the patron saint of England.

And I suppose it's more his story, his myth that is beautiful - more so than his name (but have you looked in a dictionary lately under George? Depending on your version, there are at least half a page of Georges! And no Foremans either. A couple of my other favorite Georges are W. Carver and MacDonald, poke around a bit and you're sure to find something about them too).

The popular story about St. George portrays him as a dragon-slayer, the more historical account describes him as a martyr of the Roman Emperor Diocletian. Both stories are good in their own right, but I'm a sucker for dragons.

A is for Acrostic

is for acrostic.

Let me start with a bit of a bellyache: the world of poetry has died, and we have killed it. The poet has lost the trust of readers everywhere - I blame free verse. Wait, I mean free prose...

The acrostic may not be the most popular form of poetry, but it is compelling when done well. And, to be honest, I haven't seen any English acrostics that are worth reading. I'm not counting Psalm 119 because it's not an English poem.

Psalm 119 is striking, and when you consider the form and the theme, it becomes more so: an acrostic made up of 22 stanzas, 8 verses each, with every verse beginning with that stanza's letter of the Hebrew alphabet; the theme is God's Law. Wait, God's Law?

Hide Yourself

There's no doubt in my mind that I'm unable to love; the simple and most important commandment is given to those who can't carry it out. At least not the way we are on our own.

Lately it's been hard to love anyone, my students, my boys, my wife; there was a haze settled all around me that I couldn't see through. The worst of it was that I couldn't even diagnose the problem. Usually you can at least attribute your lacking to something. This time it took me awhile.

Over the weekend my older son woke up from his nap and wanted to sit with me. "Will you rock me while I watch the letter movie?" He's all about learning his letters. So we rocked and watched a whole movie. What surprised me was that he sat through the entire show; he was still, and didn't ask questions. Only when the T.V. was off did he slide down and play.

It took awhile - again - to make any sort of connection, but it came.

Say It

Remember: you are dust

The last few days have been difficult as a dad; our older boy has been testing the boundaries, and yes, they're still there. I really don't enjoy bringing my son back to his senses, especially when for months he's avoided outright disobedience.

However, there's a freshness to it too. After he's cried and said he's sorry, and we've hugged it out and I've said I forgive him, we know something we weren't sure about a few minutes before. That is, I'm the dad and he's the son. And even though he's acted out for two straight days, part of me can't blame him. First of all he's four, and that's just his M.O. as the representative for his age group. Second, he reminds me of, well, me.

He is here

So much of what I'm feeling and thinking recently has to do with where I am throughout the day. Of course, when I'm at home, I'm thinking about being at school, and when I'm at school, I can't wait to get home. That's just part of who we are as humans - we can't quite grasp the present, can't quite see things the way they really are.


I just read a great post on The Good Book Blog called, "Hello, My Name Is YHWH." (It's a great site, by the way.) The author of the post, Kenneth Way, refers to an article he read himself about what the

Reflection on Yeats' "Leda and the Swan"

I finished reading my little book of Yeats. It wasn't the first time I had read it, and I didn't realize how much he wrote about mythology, and especially about Troy and Helen. The poem in the title of this post, "Leda and the Swan," is about the rape of Leda by Zeus. In the myth, Zeus takes the form of a Swan and forces himself on the beautiful Leda, who then bares Helen. The poem Yeats wrote about it is short, and if I didn't know the myth I would have been lost.

Yeats mentions Helen and Troy in several of his other poems, such as "No Second Troy," and, "A Prayer for my Daughter." All of these poems got me to thinking about Zeus and how he functioned as the god of gods; "Leda and the Swan," the poem and the myth, make him a father to beautiful Helen.

Zeus the deadbeat.