…why bigotry and discrimination from the Left are acceptable.
…what is the draw of socialism, especially for young people, who one would think naturally yearn for freedom.
Part of me wants to cry a lot of tears.
Part of me wants to write a “Dear ____” letter. Not to get involved in anybody’s business, but to say thanks for the good parts and get clarity on the bad.
Part of me wants to stay away.
Part of me wants to stick around and see what happens next.
Part of me wants to say it’ll be OK.
Part of me wants to say, “Wake up, grow up, quit messing around, and get on with your life!”
Part of me wonders why.
Part of me says it’s really not my concern.
Part of me says yes it is.
Part of me wants to help.
Part of me wants to know what happened.
Part of me wants to get over the possibility.
Part of me is glad I never had to do this in the age of social media.
Part of me hopes somebody else comes along, if that’s the way.
Part of me wants to reach out to one, part to the other.
Part of me wants to gather both together.
Part of me is grateful.
Part of me is confused and angry.
Part of me doesn’t know what to do next.
Part of me says it’s not up to me.
Part of me doesn’t want to see it end.
Part of me is relieved.
Part of me wonders what might have been and still might be.
I tried roasting the first batch of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe beans on Monday. As I reported, I’m almost certain my popcorn popper never got hot enough for a good roast. Also, after a little more research, it seems the poppers with the screens in the bottom of the chamber (like my first one) are not as suitable as those with solid chambers with vent holes around the sides. So, I’m in the process of procuring another popper.
Anyway, I kept that first batch, although I wasn’t satisfied with the roast. I just ground that batch and did a pourover with my little Bee House ceramic dripper. Ground the beans at medium with my burr grinder. Water at precisely 204º F. Used 26 grams of ground beans. Four minutes brew time. 400 grams of water. The ground beans assumed a mushy consistency in the dripper, and I didn’t get a steady drip and flow as I poured the water into the filter. This may be due to the inconsistent roast.
The resulting cup of coffee is kind of dark amber-brown in color. The taste is not terrible, not great. I’m not sure at this point whether that is a function of the bean or the roast, but I’m leaning toward the inconsistent roast for this as well.
Bottom line for Batch #1: It’s not the satisfying cup I’d imagined when I first started playing around with the idea. I’m hoping the next popper will make a better showing of the roast.
Remember, friends: Life Axiom #4: Life is too short to drink bad coffee.
(The latest hullabaloo over Starbucks and the plain red Christmas cups reminded me of this, one of my favorite posts from ten years ago. It’s not exactly the same situation, but it’s related and relevant today. By the way…does it really rise to the level of “hullabaloo” if one publicity-seeking moron raises a stink about a non-issue? I don’t think so. Some of the links may be outdated. You get the idea. Be gentle.)
We like Christmas, yes, we do –
We like Christmas, how ’bout you?
First of all, let’s get one thing straight, since it is an indisputable, undeniable truth of life in the world in which we live: Opinions are like…navels! – everybody’s got one. The corollary to that truth is, of course, that you are entitled to my opinion, whether you asked for it or not. And vice versa.
OK, with all that out of the way, let’s tackle this whole battle over Christmas/winter-holiday issue, shall we?
The great Alabama Christmas classic notwithstanding, this is not a peaceful Christmas time. Just about everywhere you turn, it seems somebody’s getting their stockings hung and their bells rung because of Christmas, or winter holiday, or whatever. As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, so are stories of retailers, schools, governments and whomever else discouraging, disparaging, or outright forbidding the recognition of Christmas flying through our media to our inboxes.
Now, I’m neither an intellectual nor spiritual giant. Nor do I play one on TV. But I’ve been thinking about this issue, and here’s what fell out of my Moleskine this morning. Your mileage may vary…
How should we as believers – not just “cultural Christians” – respond to the “Great Christmas Wars of Aught-Five”?
How about this?
Don’t go out of your way to “offend” others.
And don’t go out of your way to be “offended” by others.
We can enjoy our celebration. And we can offer the watching world a positive witness to our Lord.
I like baseball, but the World Series should be over before Halloween. “The Boys of November” just doesn’t have the same ring as “The Boys of October.” Likewise, college football, as great as it is, should be done on New Year’s Day. And while we’re at it, why do basketball and hockey seem to last ten months or more?
Grateful this morning for…
The Present. Now.
We look toward the future, plan for it, prepare for it, try to predict it, think of a preferred one, and we neglect this moment, the one in which we have the privilege to live now.
Annie Dillard said of The Present,
These are our few live seasons. Let us live them as purely as we can, in the present.
The Psalmist prayed:
So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.
The Apostle cautioned:
So be careful how you live. Don’t live like fools, but like those who are wise. Make the most of every opportunity in these evil days.
I started thinking about reading just for the sheer enjoyment of it, about how we – especially we who seek to teach, motivate, or encourage – are very utilitarian in our reading.
Every book, every article, every word has to mean something. There has to be some great principle, some earth-shattering truth which we can impart to our hearers/followers. We read with highlighter in hand, and we look for the snippet, the literary equivalent of a news soundbite, that we can incorporate into our teaching or writing or preaching or other pontificating.
Whatever happened to reading for the sheer pleasure of it? Where did we lose the childlike experience of being so engaged in a book that we lost all track of time, save as it functioned to measure our adventure?
And when did we stop trusting writers – I mean, real writers – to lead us on that kind of adventure? When did we start expecting them to drop those nuggets of factual truth that lend themselves to pontification? Why did we start evaluating writers on their ability to enunciate mere facts without enchanting our imagination along the way?
I’m reading Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, and it is a beautiful book. Yet, for all its beauty, it reads like a diversion, a distraction, a long journey with a very observant friend. Yes, there are truths to be gleaned. There are quotes to be used in sermons and social media feeds. Yet, there is a whole lot of sheer joy and enchantment.
I’m not sure I have gained any practical benefit from reading it. But I sure have learned to look around me, to see my surroundings, and to express wonder and delight at the extraordinary ordinary goings-on of life.
I say all that to say I started to write this piece as a post on my mostly-dormant, mostly-ignored blog. While the thoughts were running through my head, I opened the “new post” screen and instead of writing words much like these in this space, I searched for the “perfect” image to go along with the words. As I scrolled through the images in Flickr via the Compfight extension, I became focused on the images and lost the train of thought of the words. That quickly. Just that fast. Once again, I had lost sight of the main thing because I was chasing something secondary.
You see, the “experts” tell us that choosing and using the right image can go a long way toward attracting attention and building our platform. Whatever that means. But I’m more convinced than ever that if we neglect – if I neglect – the act of writing the words, of following my instincts, of listening to my heart, it really won’t matter about the picture. People can find the pictures on their own. I need to be clear on the task at hand: creating the compelling picture with my words.
If I want to write, says I, I need to write. A lot. On a regular basis. The pictures will come in time. The format will take care of itself.
The words. That’s what I want to create. For the sheer joy of it. For the enchantment. For the magic it does for my soul. Then I can invite others to come along for the adventure, and they will share the glory of a dreary Monday evenign as we infuse magic and meaning into our surroundings and into our lives.
I dreamed about pie. I dreamed about making pies. I dreamed about taking pies to some girl across the street.
I dreamed about war. I dreamed about leading a battle against an Asian army. Japanese, I think. I dreamed they were attacking a house in my neighborhood. At least, I think it was my neighborhood. They had grenades. They launched one into the garage. I rolled it back out before it exploded. They were hiding behind a wall of some sort, and I convinced my guys to charge the wall and it tumbled down on top of the bad guys.
I dreamed about the great ritual in our tribe, “preaching in view of a call” (or as one of my seminary colleagues described it, “in lieu of a call!”) in some church in Cobb County. I think it was Cobb County. I did well, but they didn’t want me.
I dreamed about a former staff member. I dreamed I had to ask him directions to the home of one of my former church members. So I could drop off a pack of diapers. At the baseball field near his house. I don’t even think there is a baseball field near his house, but there was one last night in my dream.
I dreamed I dreamed a dream. I dreamed a lot and I really don’t know what any of it means.