Category: Thoughts (page 4 of 14)

September 9, 2015 / 0 Comments

Dreams…

If you were Joseph or Daniel, or any of the other prophets who could interpret dreams, you might’ve had a field day with my night last night.

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.

August 15, 2015 / 0 Comments

School Days (for lack of a better title)…

Vernon Barford School via Compfight

I like to think I was too busy learning to be bothered with school. But looking back, I have to admit it may look like I was too undisciplined and too unmotivated. The truth is I was afraid. I was afraid of failing. And I was even more afraid of succeeding.

I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t reading. As a first grader, I was reading the fifth-grade reading book. By myself at a table in the classroom. I seem to remember my teacher, Miss Peggy, talking with my mom about moving me up a grade because of my reading. My mom demurred, arguing that my other academic and social skills were not as advanced as my reading. She may have been right.

By third grade, I had discovered girls and a love for writing. Mrs. Kight’s third grade classroom was world headquarters for the periodical Odd Sane Dog, a handwritten, hand-copied, and hand-distributed counter-culture newsletter. Well, it was as counter-culture as possible for a third grader in southeast Georgia. But there also was Molly Cannon in the third grade.

Oh, Molly.

Good golly, indeed.

I fell hard for Molly. Too bad for me, she didn’t give me the time of day. I guess the OSD was too out there for her.

In the fifth grade, I discovered the power of getting other people’s attention. There was the time I got sent to the principal’s office for talking too much about our Little League game from the day before. The principal had a novel way of dealing with loquacious fifth-graders. He made us sit out on a bench in front of his office with white adhesive tape crossed over our mouths. Imagine the looks we got as our colleagues passed by on the way to recess or lunch or wherever. Funny, ha ha! Imagine the look I got from my mom (who worked in the school office by this time) when she saw me like that!

As a seventh-grader, I became a published poet. No, for real.

August 5, 2015 / 0 Comments

Listening to the Quiet…

Holly Lay via Compfight

I decided to take this afternoon’s walk sans headphones, so I could listen to what was going on around me. I needed the quiet, I surmised, so that I could clear out some of the jumble in my head and mostly in my soul.

I wanted to listen, to pay attention, to be mindful (whatever that word means, with all its baggage). I wanted to notice.

I wanted to listen to the quiet.

I heard the whirring hum of mountain bike tires on the concrete trail.

I heard the gentle rustle of leaves as the afternoon breeze blew.

I heard the busy sounds of bugs and birds.

I heard the chatter of walkers and kayakers.

I heard the dreams and plans of lovers and friends.

I heard the soothing static of rapids at the end of the trail.

I heard my own footsteps padding upon the pavement.

I heard the silky slither of a snake through the sand, into the weeds at the water’s edge.

I heard interstate traffic whizzing by, oblivious, as though this trail, this piece of near-solitude didn’t even exist.

I heard my own breath. I heard my own heartbeat.

I heard my soul whisper in prayer that this was good, if only for a few moments.

July 28, 2015 / 0 Comments

Demons of Destruction…

I’m thinking about why creative people have such destructive personalities and engage in such destructive behavior. It seems almost a sine qua non that the most gifted and creative people – artists, writers, musicians, etc. – struggle against the demons of destruction in ways other people don’t.

January 14, 2015 / 0 Comments

Random Thoughts, 01.14.15…

Drew Herron via Compfight

It’s been a few days since I posted My500Words output here on the ol’ blog. (In the interest of full disclosure, I have written most days during this challenge, but I haven’t considered all those words worthy or public enough to put up in this space.)

So here we are, almost halfway through the month, and I need to get some words up here. So here are some unrelated random thoughts that dropped out of my head on the way to somewhere else…

Both of my side gigs seem to be running beyond their expiration date. When it’s not fun, and you don’t feel like you’re making a difference anymore, it may be a good indication a change is in order. The problem with that is the side gigs are making a difference in the financial picture. On one hand, it feels like you may need to move on or change up for your sanity’s sake. On the other hand, the stress of the missing income may be greater than the stress of the two side gigs. Either way, it’s not a good place to feel trapped by the necessity of staying with something that may not be as beneficial as it once was.
I may be rethinking the whole paper and pencil thing. See, I’ve been a big fan of the Moleskine notebook, the Black Warrior pencil, the Pink Pearl eraser, and the Staedtler barrel sharpener as long as I can remember. There’s just been something about the whole notebook thing. After all, Hemingway sat in the café in Paris, drinking, watching, and writing it all down in his blue-backed notebook. Lately, though, especially during this 500 Word Challenge, it has been easier to type than write. I’ve been using a variety of tools: Pages, Text Edit, Microsoft Word (for Windows and for Mac), and the native WordPress input screen. (Believe it or not, I’m partial to the simplicity of Text Edit on the iMac.)
I was intimidated by the challenge of writing 500 words. But I’ve been surprised by how quickly the words pile up, once you put your fingers on the keys and start typing. (I’m at 363 right now.) The problem for me is I see the mistakes and the needed edits as I type, and it’s almost impossible to let them go until the end.
The other problem is not having anything worthwhile to write. I know the other folks in this challenge have been patient and supportive and encouraging. I get that, and I appreciate that. Finding your voice, finding your subject, having something to say is a bigger deal than most people imagine!
Finally, a little gnat bite from one of the side gigs this morning. When you say you have questions about why we’re open on New Year’s Day but closed on Martin Luther King, Jr.’s birthday, it’s not real hard to see what you really mean. Trust me, it’s not. It says a lot about your character and attitudes. You can smirk and shrug it off as you walk out of the building, but it’s evident.

OK…rant off, random brain drippings contained, over 500 words on the blog, and life is good!

This is the only Wednesday you’re going to get this week…make it count!

January 6, 2015 / 1 Comment

Someone Else’s Story…

Virginia Guard Public Affairs via Compfight

(Today’s prompt for the My500Words challenge is: Tell someone else’s story.)

As a preacher, I tell Someone Else’s Story all the time. I don’t have anything worthwhile to say, but the Someone Else that I tell about has a lot to say! The issue is whether or not I’m telling that Someone Else’s Story in a way that He would approve.

On the other hand, there is another aspect to my life practice of telling someone else’s stories. When we tell someone else’s stories, we are limited because we know how those stories turned out. We know where the twists are. We are aware that what seemed to be crucial turning points when the stories were first told have become familiar and expected. Those turns have almost become clichés in many circles.

The other problem we have with telling someone else’s stories is that we become accustomed to thinking our stories should turn out like their stories did. If it worked that way for someone else, we reason, then it should work that way for me, too. We are often disappointed for we feel entitled to walking the paths that others have walked and ending up at the same destination.

If Someone Else fed the dejected prophet by miraculous means, then we expect He should do that for us, too. When the sick woman gets better immediately, we are troubled if our own disease doesn’t miraculously resolve. When the lions don’t have a snack, and when the fire doesn’t consume, we assume our experiences should reflect that reality. If struggles with illness, famine, and other dire circumstances turned out well for those others, then my struggles should have the same result.

And there’s the thing about telling someone else’s stories. While I have someone else’s stories to teach me principles and guide me to Someone Else’s truth, the fact is I’m me.

Myself.

With my own story.

I’m not someone else. I can’t exit my existence and live in someone else’s reality. I can’t walk the way they walked. I have to live my story. I have to face my struggle and look for Someone Else’s lessons in my circumstances.

The good news is that Someone Else – who has worked in someone else’s stories before – is still in business. Someone Else’s Story is ongoing, and I get the incredible opportunity to jump into The Story and write a line or two. Whitman wrote:

…the powerful play goes on, and and you may contribute a verse.

What verse will I write today? How will I contribute to the Story Someone Else is writing? Will my verse, my lines, be a worthy addition? Where will my story take me today?

January 2, 2015 / 0 Comments

Reboot, Part 1…

Image: Acid Pix via https://flic.kr/p/dPcExT

Sometimes we encounter problems and issues with our computers, phones, and other devices that can only be resolved with a complete reboot. Powering down the device completely and giving it a chance to fix the issue is often the only recourse. In fact, some experts tell us we should schedule regular times of powering down and rebooting to keep or devices running at optimal effectiveness.

We’re like that, too. Just like our devices, we encounter issues that can only be resolved by a time of rebooting. I’ve come to recognize some of the symptoms in my life that may indicate it’s time for a reboot.

I need a reboot when…

I’m isolated. I’m not talking about the time alone that most of us need more than we admit. I’m not talking about being an introvert by temperament. I’m talking about those times in my life when I go out of my way to avoid other people, even those who are in my close network of support. When I find myself shutting people out and retreating to the places where I can stay away from others, I may need a reboot. As an introvert living in a world that tilts toward extroverts, I need some time away to recharge and refocus. But I also need to realize I was created for community and any excuse I find to get away from others over an extended time is a good indicator I need to reboot.
I’m impatient. A sure sign of impending failure for me is my short fuse that gets shorter when I’m stressed or under pressure. Every little thing sets me off and makes me irritable. Things that I normally ignore or try to resolve peacefully seem to fester from “gnat bites” into major events. I need to reboot when my patience is running thin over minor issues.
I’m inconsistent. In my work, in my ethical dealings, in the way I treat others and issues. When my work starts to slip into shoddiness, I may need to step back, rest, and refocus on excellence. When I start to cut ethical corners with little thought, it may be time for a reboot and a heart check. When my relationships reflect a lack of consistency and compassion, it’s often a sign of something wrong in my system. I need to check that and restart with a commitment to do what’s right.

Next time, I’ll give some practical pointers on how to make that reboot effective.

Until then, think about the issues that get your system off track and out of sorts. Can you identify those triggers and symptoms?

August 20, 2014 / 0 Comments

Disclaimers…

Image: Peter Rukavina, https://flic.kr/p/4H9gCb

I’m kicking around a blog post (I know…gasp!) on race, what we can and should learn from the happenings in Missouri, and our response, and I realized I need at least 13 disclaimers just to set up the post. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

You didn’t ask, and you’ll probably roll your eyes, shake your head, shrug, and say, “Who cares?” But here’s the list of disclaimers so far, in no particular order of importance…

I’m a white, middle-aged, Southern man.
I’m conservative (in the classic sense, not the current media caricature) in my political thought, leaning hard toward libertarianism.
I’m not a conscious “racist,” although my standard, throwaway line is: “I’m pretty convinced the HUMAN RACE is superior to all others on the planet.”
I’m a Christ-follower, a Jesus-apprentice. Not a very good one most of the time, but I try.
I’m cynical (at best) about government “fixes” to problems in our society, believing that often, the “fix” is worse than the purported problem.
I’m an “individualist,” believing that the individual and his or her character is superior to the GroupThink that pervades our contemporary society.
Right now, I don’t have any close friends who are African-American (or black or people of color, or whatever the current term of choice is). Oh, and I don’t say that to be flippant…I’m just not sure what the preferred nomenclature is today.
That said, I don’t bear any animosity toward black/African-American/people of color as a rule (see disclaimer about the individual above). I just haven’t created or been availed of the opportunity to befriend them.
That also being said, in two of my three current jobs, I have the opportunity to interact with black/African-American/people of color. I think I do OK in those interactions. (They might think differently, but you’d have to ask them.)
Come to think of it, I have to admit I don’t have many of what I would consider “close friends” of any ethnicity. (That’s another issue for another time.)
I do consider myself a teachable learner, who is open to learn from the perspectives of others those with whom I may disagree and with whom I see eye-to-eye.
I believe the old adage: “All truth is God’s truth.”
I’m a lover and not a fighter. I would prefer to find common ground and get along than live in open hostility and disagreement.

Stay tuned…

August 14, 2014 / 0 Comments

“It’s complacency that will kill you…”

August 13, 2014 / 0 Comments

I Thought About…

“thinking” by Riccardo Cereser https://flic.kr/p/bT2t4

I thought about Robin Williams, and how all of us could be him. I could see how the pressures and difficulties of life – especially a very public life – could get the best of someone. I don’t think I could or would kill myself, but I can see it.

I thought about Hemingway and pencils, about a kid named Paco. I remembered the great opening sentence of “The Capital of the World,” and the hundreds of Pacos who showed up in Madrid to find forgiveness from their fathers. I remembered how John Maxwell telling that story made an impression on me.

But I had forgotten the second sentence:

But this Paco, who waited on table at the Pension Luarco, had no father to forgive him, nor anything for the father to forgive.

And that sentence made an impression, too. In fact, it left a mark for some reason. It made an impression because it seems in my limited experience, to be the epitome of a Hemingway sentence, true, direct, and to the point.

I thought about Barbara Brown Taylor. And I listened to part of her recent sermon at Second-Ponce. Again, I had the thought that while we probably wouldn’t see eye to eye theologically, she takes seriously the text of the Scripture. She doesn’t bring her outline into the pulpit, she talks the Word. She’s having a conversation, telling a story, engaging the text and the congregation. Her preaching probably wouldn’t pass the muster of most SBC preachers today. And it might not fit neatly with the therapeutic, life-event, felt-need teaching we have assumed to emulate.

I thought about Mt. Everest, and photography, and typefaces.

I thought about Anna and Andrew, and Mark and Alison.

I thought about extension cords and projector kits, color palettes and iPad connectors.

I thought about money, and the lack of it, and I thought about life and the brevity of it.

I thought about joy and how it seems to have long since left and is determined to stay away.

I thought about cursive handwriting and why mine is so illegible. I thought about sentences and words, and how I wouldn’t be able to decipher what I wrote in my notebook the day after I wrote it.

And I thought about quitting while I’m ahead, quitting while I’m behind, and dropping out of the race altogether.

I thought about a bunch of other things, but that’s enough for today.