grape on a vine.

you are loved. you are beautiful.

2012-01-03T17:30:00.000-08:00

Before I left for work this morning, I watched "Buck", a documentary about a man who works with horses. He works with horses that have been "broken" and are in the process of "breaking" in a more nonviolent way. When you break a horse, you are working to break them from their natural habits. Many horses are broken in violent ways, while Buck works with horses in ways I've never seen. He treats them with respect and works with them as he would a child. And it works!

And I guess that's the part that really got to me. He never blamed the horses for how they acted. It was always representative of how the owner/rider treated the animal.

As a pre-curser, I don't have children. I've yet to be in a position to say what works and what doesn't and don't think I ever should be. Each child is different and needs different things. So, this is not an attempt of me writing about what you should do with your children or how to raise them. It's about what I see and how it hurts me.

Oddly enough, after I watched "Buck", I walked to work. About halfway there, a woman (maybe mom) and a little boy come walking about two blocks behind. She's screaming at him.
She's so angry that it's making my stomach hurt.

"LOOK WHAT YOU F*CKIN' DID!" "HOW DOES IT FEEL? IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, NOW F*CKIN' WALK!"
Screaming...incredibly loud. Like you would scream when you want someone to hear you.

I started to tear up. Because it's not my place to intervene. I was generally scared for this little boy. Whatever had happened, it was not his fault.

That is what I wanted to say to him. And the whole time in my head I thought, "That little guy is gonna HATE you." I'm sure he does already. What in your right mind makes you want to demean a child so badly? There's nothing he could have done to have deserved a verbal lashing like that. NOTHING.

And the kid is crying the whole time.
I look back and then forward and hear the woman yell, "OH! YOU GOT SOMETHIN' TO SAY!" In which, I just keep walking.

For a sensitive heart like mine, it ripped me open. My heart was beating fast and I felt nauseated.
That poor child does not want to come home. Even if he did inconvenience his mom. You wouldn't talk to an adult like that...then again, maybe you would.

That kid will have NO respect for you and from what I can see, you don't deserve it. And it's no doubt this woman was treated like this when she was a kid.

Children mirror the way they are treated. Like the documentary showed, if you treat a horse violently, it will treat you violently.
But don't blame it on your kids.
After all, they're just watching you and how you interact with them and others.

Kids are so, so smart and don't deserve your temper. They are mirrors of your own self.

Watching and hearing that woman scream at this child broke my heart into pieces.

When all I wanted to do was tell him that through all of it, he was loved and beautiful.

I'm so sorry. You don't deserve that. No one does.

the person of Jesus [and Troy Davis]

2011-10-03T10:41:00.000-07:00

I was sitting down with a friend this past week and she said something about the "character of Christ".
And I know there are those who label themselves Red Letter Christians, because I have been and you could say that Jesus' words [in a Biblical context and places elsewhere] were of upmost importance.

I started thinking about the character of Jesus. (As I like to call him.)

I started thinking about Troy Davis -- the man executed a couple of weeks ago for a crime he may or may not have committed.
The death penalty. Either way, a hard thing to wrap my head around.
There just happens to be a crime so bad, we kill you if you do it.
And in my anger, I don't want this to be something 'for or against' because the people who know me well enough, know where I stand. We can have those conversations somewhere safe, between us.

The character of Jesus went against the grain. Homeless, left his parents, moved and entrusted among a group of screw up fishermen and tax collectors and women who society deemed unclean.
Now, let's talk about crucifixion.
The death penalty. The thing many Christians are for (by penalty of killing another human).
Jesus was killed by way of death penalty.

Not for taking -- but giving.

So while you might praise an eye for an eye -- you have to remember that this person of Jesus was killed by the people -- for doing something revolutionary.
However we interpret Jesus, you cannot deny that he was punished by an empire; shortly after, it crumbled to the ground.

[And I'm not comparing Troy to Jesus, only the context for which they were both killed by the people and government.]

When we shake our fists at killers, we're shaking our fists at the very people we were called to love. Many of the words you read in your Bible were written by killers who were given Grace.

And deep down, I imagine Troy, who is now hugged with freedom, with the person of Jesus, asking "Why?"

"Because they did it to me, first."

Do You Use Offensive Language?

2011-09-26T14:15:00.000-07:00

I was chatting with a friend a couple of weeks ago about what and who we stand for.

"I try to be the least offensive as possible..."
This is what it came down to, and is something I can stand firmly by when referring to people and their identities.

We've also been working on our language. I feel, more than anything, words are the most destructive.
We have a tendency to reduce a person's identify by how they speak or walk. We have somehow created a filing system in our subconscious that categorizes people by the words we use.

Words like dumb, stupid, crazy, and lame. (Even the word "Retarded" is still used to describe something 'not right'.)
The list goes on.

You need to know that these words can be used in a hurtful way.
"Dude, that's so lame!"
Lame, meaning a person who can't walk.
Dumb, meaning a person who is deaf.
Crazy, well, we have to be careful who the world deems crazy. Generally, it's a psychological issue [though 'crazy' isn't even a word anyone would prescribe to another -- but a term that is generally associated with a person who is not right in the head.]

It's hard to stop using these words because I still find myself using them.
It's easy for me to call something crazy.
But, it forces me to stretch my view of the situation.
You might not be thinking this is such a big deal, to say something is crazy or dumb -- but if the person who overhears these words becomes offended, then you might want to reconsider using them.

I know it seems like I'm taking these things too seriously, but when it comes to loving others, we should always be learning how to be better people. To be kind and thoughtful of another is seriously heroism these days.

Thoughts as of recently tell me that we can never be too kind in this broken world.

And in this broken world, we must be ready to care for others and work to be better people.

[remembering] we belong to each other

2011-08-10T11:36:00.000-07:00

It's absolutely paralyzing.

I feel my heart beat in my chest and to be honest, it's good to know it's still thumping.
I've been learning to be more in tune with my body.

And when paying attention to one's self, you are met with the actualization that you're a part of a giant world.
Right now, and as always, an incredibly broken world.

I am broken with this world. I feel it in my chest - like my feet have grown roots and feel the pain of things that filter through this soil.
It sounds dramatic, but when you are aware of yourself in the world around you, you constantly question whether you are adding or taking away from it. I question this daily with what I eat or watch or listen to.

The famine. The riots. I have to mention the stock market because it's clogging our pores with fear.

How does one deal with it?
The privilege I have to sit in a comfy chair and write about my process.
It's hard to balance what I deserve and what I don't while a mother in Kenya walks desperately to find food for her starving children (and her own frail status.)

Regardless of what I ramble on about -- whether it's food politics/policies or whatever it is I find interesting at a certain time, my heart beats to the painful pulse of humanity.
I still stand by the oppressed, if not physically than hopefully, with words and actions. But then again, I'm also a conflicted human being whose needs should always be put into check.

I had a dream about Calcutta last night. I was with some people I'd never met, oddly enough. They were staying at this (I'm sure of...) imaginary community by the water. It was nice. They were wearing sunglasses and enjoying good food.

"This is great..." they said.

I responded, "Just wait..." sort of expecting us to walk into the crowded streets. But, we never did.
Then, I woke up.
Upset..confused...as to how the poor have engrained something deep down in my conscience that is obvious now, I can't control on my own.

But I think it's good. To have this deep down. That even as I live here and work and experience small joys, I can trust my body to tell me when something is wrong.

Like it is now.
Because I can feel it, deep in my belly, that we are forgetting to take care of each other.

We must remember that we, on all sides of the scrolling marquees and flaming cars and barren land, belong to each other.

margins and spaces.

2011-06-15T10:24:00.000-07:00

I think about God a lot.

I always have and probably always will.

And this is good – not because it makes me holy, but because I have a hard time processing the world without some hint of mystery or greater force than that of the destructive human being (and its condition).

I used to pray for God to send me places, thinking everywhere else but here was good enough for my “shining light”. Then I realized my neighbors were hurting too and that caught me off guard. There are folks in this world who do amazing things in other cultures that I give the highest regard. They are sharers of culture and goodness. They are givers of love and receivers of pain (and vice versa).

The poor still beg deep down in my heart and I see it everyday, even if the hands aren’t cupped in front of me. I see the loneliness in the rich and struggle from the working class. Stripped down, we’re all needy of something and aren’t always at our most thoughtful. Bosses don’t give us raises and we put up with more than we think we’re paid for – because we’ll do almost anything for a decent wage. Money talks and money spits.

And when spirits are low, I hear “God is still good to us…” and “Lord, Lord, Lord…” [And the names of the Great Mystery intertwined…]

Rising from the bellies of misfortune and neglect, I see these words dance like a great weight lifted, reminding me that we’re not done yet. When you see God in everything, it’s hard to treat something like it isn’t sacred – like it’s not important and doesn’t deserve your effort. But it does – everything deserves your whole being because you yourself are sacred and loved and alive. The idea that God dwells within life is important. In black and white pages, it gets lost. (Even when it’s highlighted.)

God is in the margins – God is also in the single spaced lines and the pictures created by words. In both, we should be careful. Even as my heart shifts, I still feel connected and at times, closer to that great Broken Body. We all bend and at times break – we groan with our growing pains and weep for that great sadness.

Yeah, I still think about God, but probably a little different each day.

And that’s okay, because I know who I am and what dwells inside of me.
You may not call it that and neither will you…or you.
But my heart can’t deny that river flowing deeply, waiting for the moon to bring in the tide.

stone oregon.

2011-06-09T12:02:00.001-07:00

A local Oregonian writer coined the phrase, “Stone Oregon”.

From what I understand, it’s the description of something classically Oregon. It could be a person’s manner, action or even just a piece of epic scenery. Regardless, I’ve fallen for this phrase. As a Mississippi native, I cannot claim to call Oregon anything but my home for the past two years. But, as I have lived and experienced this state, I believe I can recognize what counts as Stone Oregon.

A few weeks ago, an older man wearing suspenders and a flannel came scuffling in with a plastic Fred Meyer bag. He came up to the counter and asked, “Would Matt want these?” Matt is the chef across the street at Firehouse. I directed him to the back so he could ask Gretchen, our pastry chef and owner. In the back I heard Gretchen say, “Ohh…um, well, I don’t know. I just don’t think so.” The guy thanked us and continued his hurried swagger down the sidewalk.

“What’s in the bag?” I asked. “Mushrooms. The guy grows mushrooms.” Gretchen said. He was trying to sell us mushrooms. Okay, it’s nothing too crazy. People grow and sell mushrooms. Except, this guy had mushrooms growing in his van. Not like some sort of greenhouse or small mushroom farm – they just happened to grow in his damp, dark and (apparently) fertile van. He figured they were edible and a restaurant might need them.

This to me was Stone Oregon.

When I first moved up here, I needed to get a license plate. In order for someone to get a new sticker or tag, you have to pass an emissions test. When I had finally gotten through, the mechanic asked where I was from and told him I had only been here a couple of weeks. “You drink beer?” he asked. “Sure do!”
He flipped my receipt over and started to scribble down a few of his favorites. “You see this place here -- has great fish tacos. Best in Southeast Portland.” He gave me their happy hour times and what food was best at what bar.

Stone Oregon.

Hazelnut vineyards. The Gorge and the Willamette. Having a beer on your lunch hour.

And there’s something uniquely Oregonian about an IPA (India Pale Ale). The first time I ordered one in front of a group of people, I said [phonetically] “eye-puh”. I was clueless. Now, sharing them among friends and serving quite a few to the thirsty public, I recognize that there is something to be said about an ice cold IPA after a long shift or a warm day. It seems like a badge of honor to love the hoppiest IPA you can stand. They are not for the faint of heart and generally contain a higher percentage of alcohol than the other microbrews.

I love it. In a sense, many Oregonians (trying not to assume all of Oregon acts in the way of Portlandia) work enough to live happy – which at times, doesn’t seem to be much of an effort. If you can afford rent and food, you can pretty much make it decent. After all, it’s the simple things that I try to catch.

Like when the setting sun paints the tips of those old firs, I breathe deep.

Yeah, Stone Oregon…

…that’s exactly what it is.

keep coming back.

2011-06-02T10:16:00.001-07:00

I was watching a scene that took place at an addicts meeting where cocaine and heroin reigned as a common bond. Cigarette smoke filled the air among the sparsely separated group of attendees. All walks of life were represented. From homeless to upper class – all were damaged by the poison.
At the end, they were given key chains symbolizing months, weeks, days and hours of sobriety. As the speaker called out, “Six months…” No one came forward and the attendees responded, “Keep comin’ back!”

The first person came up at two months and another at six weeks. Cheers of congratulations and hugs filled the room that to many, is a first step out of hell. “And most importantly,” the speaker said, “those who have been clean for 24 hours – those who don’t want to lose their life.” And still, only a handful came up to receive their keychain.

It hit me – that feeling you get when something gets the back of your throat and makes your eyes burn. There’s something about this open brokenness that gets me. I’ve heard wonderful things about these meetings, but I forget sometimes, the reach of these issues. It makes you realize how close we are to one another when it hits the fan.

It’s saying, “If you’re broken, keep coming back.”

I love that.
There’s no deadline to this issue. It’s constant. It’s addiction. It’s a constant battle between you and a stimulus. I find such hope that we can, in some way, fight for each other’s lives. It makes being human a little more real. There’s love for those who need it. It’s when we recognize that we need some healing. These are the pieces of life I find so much hope in. In the basement of churches, schools and public halls the broken Beloved gather to share in their worst nightmares.

And when they leave and use…they can come back. As one who still has his vices, I know we are a people of all kinds of addictions. I find hope in a people that can overcome this and share their own story about the things that hide in the darkest recesses of our conscious.

Again, I think about the Broken Body and its many parts and I think of You. I think about all the healing that has taken place inside my heart and the wounds that continue to hurt.

And when the smoke clears, I’m still thankful You are there, making room for this prodigal son.

the kookoolan chicken (how very Portlandia of me...)

2011-05-25T09:48:00.000-07:00

I spent 23 dollars on a whole chicken today.

I splurged. Some people splurge on shoes; some on video games.

I buy local hens and good olive oil. We all have our things, I reckon’.

At $4 a pound, I was weighing what else I could get with my $30 dollar tip budget. I know, right? Thirty bucks sounds like a lot for a couple of days worth of groceries – and it is. I picked up a few bunches of short, chubby [organic, if that’s important to you] carrots as a side. I snagged a few sprigs of sage and rosemary because we have thyme growing on our back stoop that just so happened to survive the gross winter.

I grabbed a quart of [whole] milk, a lemon and checked out happily. I walked out, as I always do realizing we spend so much of our money on food. We don’t have much money to begin with, but for us, food is an investment, more so than our rent. I’ve said all this before, how we value food [as a nation] and why things need to change. And yes, I know you can’t wait to slam me about how you just downed a quarter-pounder with cheese from McDonalds and it was “damn good!” – awesome. Those things do taste good, if they didn’t, they wouldn’t brag about the millions sold everyday.

But now that’s out of the way, I want to talk about this chicken. It was from Yamhill, a town about an hour southwest of us here in Portland. “Kookoolan Chicken”, the label said -- only available till October. Pasture raised, free roaming hen. I get excited about roasting a chicken, especially one as special as this. Almost as excited as I get about eating it fried. I suppose we, as Americans, eat too much chicken – too much in general. We all know this, right? I’m not going for a guilt trip as much as I am realizing my own daily intake of resources.

There’s something rustic about it all. The savory herbs. Liberal amounts of salt and pepper. Compound butter spread between the skin and breast meat. A solid cast-iron skillet. The smell, oh God, the smell! Long after it’s done, our tiny living space smells of it. Letting it rest, though irresistibly snatching that crispy bit of skin, we enjoy it and the life it gave to feed us temporarily, and in a sense, for an eternity. I understand the contradiction of saying we eat too much of the stuff, but I buy it and cook it instead. We don’t eat it everyday – and consider it such a luxury. And let’s be honest, a chicken should cost this much. When you think about cost per pound, and what it took to keep that chicken alive, healthy and generally happy, we’re probably paying a more legit price than you would at Kroger or Fred Meyer.

To bring it back to what I want to say, we’re so lucky to have such options. Food is one of the joys in our lives that we get to choose daily, and we recognize this luxury. In a culture of excess and nutritional lack, this chicken means the world to us and it just so happened to taste really, really good.

[not] wild at heart.

2011-05-18T10:20:00.001-07:00

(Pre-reading note: this piece utilizes the biological terms for our male/female sex organs. Please be aware that those words will be included and choose to read only if you are comfortable with that terminology.)

I’m not really wild at heart.

I’ve yet to feel the urge to conquer a great mountain or dominate a piece of land. (Though I have felt the urge to bring down a giant dinosaur with a spear, but that’s another shade of my imagination.) When I think about my masculinity, and what it means to me in the patriarchal world, there is so much variation, even in the ways that we appear to be men.

And I appear to be a man. But this isn’t always the case. We’re all learning more and more about what it means to be masculine and feminine. Gender and sexuality are not black and white characteristics, but are defined by means of genetic and environmental influence. I am not a scholar on these matters, but I do have some thoughts – as a conflicted human being – that do not necessarily agree with the masculine overtone of society or the “reclaiming” of my own masculinity. Because personally, I don’t think I’ve lost anything.

I’ve always been somewhat tenderhearted and soft spoken. I loved sports but hated the conflict. I hated being yelled at. I took it far more personal than my teammates. I remember I sat out a game and said I felt sick because the coach made me so nervous. [You left because you were so disappointed and never asked me why. Luckily, you had your motorcycle to fix.]

My sister likes sports more than me and I love that. I probably cook more than the average man. I read Real Simple magazine. [I mean, they make food look so cool!] And all of these things are okay. The point I’m trying to make is that the lines of what makes a person masculine and feminine are far beyond the penis and the vagina. I love spending time with my brothas. But, I don’t do it for penis jokes (generally) or to claim my lost masculine ways. I do it because I enjoy it. We don’t always have to separate ourselves in typical gender explorations. Unfortunately, boys vs. girls did not end after 8th grade.

This is why “man retreats” make me nervous. I imagine myself secluded in a tent while the rest cover their bodies in mud and climb rock faces with their bare, bloody knuckles. Hey…good for you! Just don’t expect me to relate to your need of domination and freedom from “the vagina”! I recently read a blog where a woman biblically stated that men were and should be protectors and that all women (though not all will admittedly say) want to be protected. I don’t even want to get into the church’s view on masculine protection and the role of the woman, but needless to say, it’s hurtful and paints women as children who need “their men” to be everything.

And then, there’s this thing called reality, where nothing is what it’s said to be. It’s where men like to dress nice and women could care less. It’s where a husband enjoys being a homemaker more than his wife. It’s where two men wonderfully take care of a child – and the same for two women who work on loving each other and their fellow human beings better.

Don’t expect me to respond to this call of the wild. I’ll probably be in our kitchen learning how to use strawberry and rhubarb together because my wife had a long day and deserves a delicious piece of pie.

**Just a quick note, by pointing out the ways men and women are stereotyped into particular activities, I run the risk of re-enforcing those activities as either male or female and re-enforcing a view of gender as a binary (meaning split into two categories.) This is not my intent. Instead I am hoping to open up to the idea that we are each just people who are able to move freely in and out of the things we enjoy, no matter which gender those things are typically associated with and perhaps to begin to break down gender categories.

creaky floors (and the High Life)

2011-04-27T10:22:00.001-07:00

Our bones creak and shift as we walk across these old wooden floors. They don’t mind, considering they say the same thing.

I know deep down that these are the sounds that life gives us – signs from the Great Mystery that keeps our humanity at check. We all grow older, hopefully not stubborn, but maybe a little softer. Kind of like these wooden floors.

As I sit down in this great big brown chair, I listen to the world outside of our windows. Of course, I’m comforted by a good cup of coffee, a lit candle and perhaps the least efficient heater I’ve ever used…but it’s good and comforting. I listen to the lives of people trying to make it or who just can’t get out of that bad situation.

Then there’s the familiar rattle of subwoofers in the trunk of an old Cadillac or the popping of a pack of cigarettes (Ya know, so they burn longer, right?) And though these things are seemingly unimportant, I find life in them. I am ever so intrigued by these rhythms of life. There’s the daily six-pack of Miller High Life our neighbor Sam buys from the convenience store across the street. One time we watched him talk on his cell phone held between his shoulder and ear, while a tallboy slipped from its plastic ring onto the unforgiving cement. His hands were full with the bare essentials.

You realize how close you live to other people you hardly know when you hear them coughing up phlegm at two in the morning. You know he’s had open-heart surgery because he came out wearing a white-ribbed tank top exposing his scars. “Gotta watch dem’ weeds…dey’ grow so damn fast…” Turns out, he’s from Hazelhurst, Mississippi. A fellow son of the Magnolia state.

There’s a lot to see when you look closer at your everyday life. Even sitting in this brown chair, I am aware the store across the street is open, which might mean that Sam will be heading over – and that our corner of this block will get louder. The guy who leaves skid marks by doing donuts on the intersection may or may not show off today, but we understand that for whatever reason, his voice is heard.

Above this creaky floor we walk – as we say good morning and good night to the sounds of our weighty ghosts.

how I met your Jesus.

2011-04-22T15:11:00.001-07:00

This past week, I found myself channel surfing on a lazy evening following my morning shift. I came across TBN and found they were showing “The Passion of the Christ”. It’s not usually the kind of programming you come across and yell, “Oh yeah! I love this movie!”

I saw it in high school when it was released in theaters and haven’t seen it since. I told myself every Easter that I would try to watch it – but just couldn’t do it again. When I watched it in the theater, I sat by my friend Jenn who jumped and hid her eyes and cried during the more disturbing scenes. And understandably so, it is a very violent film – it was a very violent day. For any person, regardless of religious persuasion or philosophy, would maybe find this movie hard to watch.

Hannah was in the other room watching “How I Met Your Mother” on our computer with headphones, laughing on and off, while I sat in our guest room tearing up in the same pattern. [And to be honest, somewhat of a humorous dichotomy…]

I’m not sure why I felt the need to watch it this time around, but it was on. I had time, and considering Good Friday and Easter and what that means for myself and others who were raised by the teachings of Jesus. I watched this time…noticing Jesus’ mother, Mary. I watched as she stayed with him. Weeping – flashing back to when Jesus was a child. This was simply an unbearable thing for anyone to see in person, more or less, Jesus’ mother having to watch her son being slowly killed.

After it was done, I sat and gained back my composure and decided to take a drive. The sun was warm as was my face. I thought about Mary. I thought about how strong she was and how she had to take her son off a cross and hold his battered, lifeless body. And still, such a strong Momma.
I also thought about Simon. This was the guy forced to help carry the cross. I thought about his morning -- how he was just out and about returning from a day trip. Little did he know he would be carrying the cross of Jesus – a person he knew little about, only that he didn’t want to be involved. I’m sure Simon wondered why a person would have been beat up so badly and forced to carry such a thing that Simon, even in good condition, had trouble carrying.

I wondered what he thought about once returning home and eating dinner and maybe…eventually…falling asleep. I imagine what it must have been like – to be walking down the street and within minutes, forced to participate in violent crucifixions. I wonder how it changed him.

I think about Simon telling others,

“…this is how I met your Jesus.”

spring.

2011-03-28T14:42:00.001-07:00

I heard a great songbird this morning. Things began to shift in my heart.

Through the rain hitting our kitchen window, I remembered that Spring is upon our dormant heels. We may not know, but the trees do.

Then again, they always know when to sleep and bend and move. We, on the other hand have lost touch with that great Invisible force. The ones that gave us growing pains when we were young and remind us again when we give birth to new things.

At first, I listened with aggravation. “What do you have to sing about?! It’s raining and cold and dark…” All of a sudden, I remembered the trees on our street are blooming with gorgeous whites and pinks. The slightest breeze unloads their skinny branches with floral confetti. (You know, kind of like when you walk into a surprise party?)

It hits your face and you feel celebrated.

“But…I didn’t do anything. Surely you’ve wasted your dear colors on this undeserving soul.”
And at that moment, I realized it wasn’t about me. The trees will celebrate with or without my acknowledgment. I felt deep down they were showing off. I affirmed this as I would any unstoppable force of life.

“How would I do something like that?”

To move and sing and give thanks regardless of affirmation.

There is something that moves within these seasons. I didn’t use to notice, but now, I feel its composition deep down in my bones and belly. I anxiously await the Great Warmth and will not take its embrace for granted.

We are growing and we will experience its labor and pains, but we will also await the Warmth and colors and the sounds of that Great Songbird.

And when that confetti falls upon your face, you will be celebrated.
You will be celebrated.

simple joy.

2011-03-23T10:58:00.001-07:00

I’ve been catching myself lately.

Usually it’s after sharing a meal with friends or a small conversation. It happens during a cup of good coffee or a breath of the day’s new air.

I call them simple joys.

Needless to say, we are living in some deeply troubled times. If we allow ourselves to stop and feel it for just five minutes, we are almost immediately overwhelmed with a great sadness. Somewhere, a preacher is screaming in justification that the end times are here. In another world, a mother in Japan clings to the hope of finding her son.

I find myself once again conflicted between these moments. Some things just knock the wind out of us. But it’s important to keep going – that’s all we have. The ability to move forward.

Today, we have to repair our car, again. It’s costing us money we don’t have, but this is nothing new to our world of things. It is overwhelming for a moment and we place our head in our hands. Then, it becomes quieter as it sinks into our bones.

This too shall pass.

In no way am I comparing our car to the atrocities of unjust war or a natural disaster. I do though, recognize that our worlds change daily, and it’s good to recognize your joys.

The simplicity of a good thing gets overlooked in our world of bad. We wake up next to our loves and we embrace the beauty of a few moments that move slower in the brevity of our daily life. We hug our kids, we make someone smile and we keep moving. It’s a tragedy in itself to miss these moments when humanity is seen at its best... living day to day.

In the words of the great prophet James Taylor, “The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.” And in ways I grow calloused, but more so become softer to the ebb and flow of our daily lives. Whether its in cooking or building or embracing a friend in deep sadness, our cups are full.

So drink up...
...it will never be empty.

the brown chair

2011-03-02T13:23:00.001-08:00

As a person who likes to write, it’s important to have a space where you feel comfortable. I used to think it was a desk, until I noticed my ass getting numb if I sat longer than 20 minutes. Comfortable office chairs are just not in my budget right now, so I moved to my next favorite place: the brown chair.

Many families have their version of “the brown chair”. Many families have an actual brown chair (like the Harrods – my family-by-marriage) and it too, has mystical powers. The first time I saw the brown chair, it was sitting near a wood-burning oven. I’d heard stories and knew of its comforting powers among the Harrods of Hardscrabble Road.

They led me to it as though I was meeting an old friend of the family. I was given the honor of sinking into its warm embrace as though I was its prodigal son.
The chair still exists, only in Boise, Idaho where you’ll most likely find Danny Harrod falling asleep in the middle of a conversation – not because he means to – it’s just the way the chair works. One cannot argue it holds therapeutic and spiritual properties.

What’s in a chair, you ask? Well, you’re probably not asking, but I’ll tell you anyway. My Gran gave us our brown chair before Hannah and I got married. We got it at a furniture store off Powell and 82nd in Southeast Portland. I would tell people, “There’s not many things I want in life…but a comfy recliner would certainly not suck…”

So, the next day, we received our brown chair and I fell asleep in it the following night. When friends come over, they pull the smooth brown lever that ever so gently brings their legs into a posture of sleepy goodness. The brown chair is a great comfort to me – as I’m writing in it right now, struggling to keep my eyes open.

This is what the brown chair is all about. Comfort -- something familiar -- a place of rest. I know it seems funny to devote a small essay to a chair, but these things are important in a world where so much in taken for granted.

Thank you, big brown chair. When I’ve had a long day, you’re always there rest my bones. Let’s hope we have you for years to come – where maybe I’ll be rocking my own babies to sleep.

reducing the dream [to a sound byte]

2011-01-23T12:50:00.001-08:00

What I’m about to talk about was inspired by recently going to watch Angela Davis speak at Willamette University. Given that we just celebrated MLK Jr.’s birthday, she was in to speak on the Black liberation movement, its people and the struggles of past, present and future.

She said something… well, she said a lot of things that stuck with me. She talked about how we have reduced MLK Jr. to a sound byte.

And…it’s true.

I think about the way we use Facebook. The quotes upon quotes of MLK Jr.’s words – though beautiful and thought provoking – left me feeling a bit disillusioned with our actual feelings toward equality and our efforts to create a sustainable movement. Such as, “Oh man, nice to have a day off...oh yeah! [insert MLK Jr. quote here]”! Followed by several “right on!” comments and ‘likes’.

I don’t quite understand. The fact that we only celebrate one black man the entire year – America, don’t get ahead of yourself. Only two years ago we were celebrating Barack Obama and now, we’re tearing him down.

Instant gratification society.

But, it also shows you what happens when groups of young folk organize and decide to make a change. It is encouraging, but it isn’t easy. We can romanticize the movement and the image, but we have to understand it was more than one person, but groups of people. Working class women who took buses to work; sit-ins and humiliating public degradation.

Have we reduced civil rights so much that we have forgotten the sting? Do we forget that 2.5 million people behind bars aren’t given any? Homophobia unleashes its sting on LGBT communities and we’re left with an awful taste in our mouths.

My hope…is that we haven’t reduced this message…this movement…this struggle…

to a like...

the year of bread

2011-01-08T12:43:00.001-08:00

Sitting among some dear friends, we processed the year. Marriage, jobs, babies, education “et all” were intertwined within each other’s deeply rich journeys.

I’ve said before that Fall feels more like a new year to me than the actual “New Year” we’ve come to celebrate. It’s cold and dark and you’re generally a little burnt out. Granted, I somewhat enjoy bringing in the New Year, but my soul truly resonates with the harvest.

When it came time for me to talk, I had hoped to reach down and pull out something truly epic that had happened within the past year – something that ultimately defined 2010 in all its bigness. (I don’t assume bigness is a word, but I like it.)

As I sorted through the things that happened this past year, I thought about my changing of jobs that had been a really healthy and needed transition. Dear friends of both here and down South were married – truly special people we enjoy doing life with regardless of proximity. We waited for baby Welly to enter the earth and he did so with such a strong Mom and Dad.

It was a meaningful year in many ways…but what I ended up saying, in the midst of my mumbling of good and silly things, was that “I learned how to make bread…”
Now, I’ve failed many times this past year at making bread. Not giving it enough time…or being sloppy in how I treated it. But I learned a little bit here and there and eventually produced something edible and to my eyes, appetizing.

The smell of dough rising is a fine thing. Pulling and rolling into familiar shapes – letting it sit and giving it time – I find peace.

I laid in bed that night thinking about what I had said. The New Year was well into 3am and my thoughts were of the human being lying beside me. She was asleep and warm and safe. We have often thought on the word “companion” and what it means to us. In old French meaning, “one who breaks bread with another”, we found a mutually resonating truth.

We break bread together.

I realized that much of this past year had revolved around the notion of caring for each other in difficult places. It’s been about sharing and sacrificing and being present with each other in the midst of joy and sadness. We’ve sang sad songs and have danced when other music fills our hearts. [And understand that we will continue to learn things together.]

I don’t always do a good job, but in the beginning, middle and end, we’re not expecting each other to be perfect. We are very much flawed human beings.
I resonate with the words of Ursula K. LeGuin who says, “Love does not just sit there, like a stone; it has to be made, like bread, remade all the time, new.”

What better way to spend a year than learning to be better friends with the person who carries your heart through the deepest places.

What better way to spend a year than learning how to make a simple loaf of bread.

scientists in the pizza line

2010-12-23T22:43:00.001-08:00

I lounged in the soft, new grass of my alma mater. My wife sat and picked her favorite fallen leaves while I couldn’t get over how quiet and empty it was. This is where it used to be. The place where I came to eat or sit like a wallflower among big groups while stuffing my face with gray hamburgers and sweet soda. For the most part, I’m still a wallflower – taking in the human condition whenever I can.

They demolished what used to be called, “The Commons” – every university or college has their version of it and is generally called something that it’s not. It’s where everyone goes to eat and generally comes out smelling like 10-day old deep-fryer grease.

I remember that most days, I ate lunch and dinner by myself – not that I didn’t have friends or people to share meals with, it’s just that most of the time, we missed each other. Generally I sat, half pretending to read with those white ear-buds blaring Christian-metal or something of the like. When you’re listening to music, you don’t feel quite as alone.

I liked looking out the window to see the giant science tower. I imagined they were doing important things – things I’d never be able to grasp. Considering most of my grades in biology, it was true. The world would not have me as a scientist or a madman splicing cells. Perhaps the world is better for it.

I chose psychology.
It is a science in itself, but one that did not require a lot of math except for statistics…which was halfway tolerable. I think people like hearing themselves complain about how hard a test was or how much a class is sinking them into a mild state of depression. Like maybe some badge of honor in the realm of higher education. I know I liked whining about it. It kind of makes you feel important. All-nighters turn into fun stories and the luxury of sleep makes it all worthwhile.

I think I was lying where the pizza station used to be. Frozen discs thrown into conveyor ovens and slapped onto our faded mustard colored plates. It was a safe bet to get pizza. Now, the old building lay in some far off dump while I looked at where I once sat only six years earlier – complaining about condoms hanging off doorknobs and fire alarms going off at three in the morning.

Except now, I’m with my wife…and we’re picking out her favorite leaves that have let go of their branches. We’re sipping on some half decent coffee and are now on our way home, fingers intertwined...remembering where we’ve been.

what coats a spoon.

2010-12-07T11:17:00.001-08:00

I think being married forces you to become more human.

I’m not in a place to speak wisdom on marriage or “matrimony” or whatever it is we like to call it, but it begs of me to be a better person than I’ve ever been. It’s the short remarks over who washes dishes better and why the covers always end up on your side in the middle of the night.

I hesitate to say it is only married folks who live together, because this is not true. There are partners, lovers, friends and family. The romantic idea of community goes out the door along with the warm air you try to keep in.

It requires day after day of learning each other’s hearts and holding them even tighter when they are at their most fragile. I still hold firmly to the idea that loving someone over and over and over again is the most radical thing we could ever do.

Whether it is your son, daughter, friend or partner, it is overwhelmingly heavy.

Like coating a spoon heavy.

Like needing someone else to help carry it…heavy.

Recently, I sat close with a few dear friends and contemplated our Belovedness. The idea that we belong to each other – the heart of the human condition. (Of that, I am forever a student of in the best and worst ways possible.)

Day in and day out we live alongside each other. Intertwined is a word I like to use. Our spaces are woven throughout conversation and cooking…misunderstanding and forgiveness.

It comes down to taking care of each other when your calm place turns stressful and shaky. You have to find a way to take care of each other in all of these places. Among the violence of our surroundings, there is nothing more necessary than to keep the peace in our walls and throats. Slowly and thoughtfully learning ways to calm our words and actions.

We are responsible for this peace.
After all...we belong to each other.

junkmail gentrification

2010-11-12T11:31:00.001-08:00

It happens when I sense the need for justice.

It rises deep from my belly and comes out in a slur of frustration and sadness. My heart will always be with the oppressed – the underdog – the misused. I sit and wonder what good this anger will do, if not somehow channeled through some sort of useful medium.

Sometimes, I want to think that we’re all getting better. Perhaps by judging less…understanding and listening more to our friends and neighbors. But at times, I remember that the pendulum swings both ways. One small step for justice and two leaps back for the oppressed.

It makes me want to be a lawyer…but I know that it is out of the question. I am too inexperienced to speak up for what little I know about my neighborhood and the people that live down the street. But I will speak well of them, because they are good to us.

I don’t usually answer our door unless I know someone is coming over. Generally, it’s Greenpeace or religious-tract-giver-outers…for which I’ve been a sucker for both. But there was a time when one of my neighbors was trying to give me mail, and I didn’t answer. Now, I don’t blame myself for not answering because I’m generally a push over and a sucker for a good story.

But, as I came home one night, my neighbor was sitting on his front porch and walked over to hand me a few pieces of mis-delivered [junk]mail (coupons, newsletters, etc.) “I was waitin’ for you to come home. I’ve been trying to give these to you…but no one ever answered…” In which I responded, “Man, I’m sorry…thanks for doing that…” He walked off somewhat affirming my response. I felt bad that he had gone through all that trouble. If only just putting it in our mailbox would have solved the problem entirely…but that’s the way I think.

Through these few pieces of junk mail, I felt cared for and completely humbled. I’m still very much new to my neighborhood…and don’t understand what it has been through – which undeniably, has been a lot. Gentrification is on its way [and is already here to much extent], and I fear for the ones that have been good to us…protective…if not at some point to us, humorously offensive, but entirely true to who they are as a community that have been here way longer than we have and will probably be here when/if we ever decide to move along.

There will probably be a day when our neighborhood will become a “historic” district…in which it will have to get its “act” together. Floods of people will come with their money and push aside folks who have already been pushed to the margins. It is a seemingly endless cycle.

We chose where we wanted to live because of its rich diversity and simply, because it was one of the only places we could afford. We love our little neighborhood and the store across the street. Even with its barbed-wire security cameras and motion sensor lights, it is what makes our neighborhood what it is. It is a staple to the community that I fear is slowly moving away through the means of higher-class fear and my undeniable role as a gentrifier.

the new season

2010-10-11T12:25:00.001-07:00

You can feel it in your bones.

The moment the wind hits you…
You arch your back and breathe deep.
You stare into the cobalt sky and realize that the new season is on its way from the great North.

Though we, as a country, celebrate the New Year at the end of that Yuletide month, Fall brings upon me a feeling of new. The leaves are changing and scarves loop their way around our bare necks. I assume that most people understand the changing of colors as a sign that the once vibrant green-sleeved branches are losing life.
And, they are. But it’s so much more than that.

This season brings the Harvest. Grapes are picked, pressed and by the grace of skilled hands, eventually, gives us wine. I never grew up around vineyards, but I did grow up around pine trees. In fact, the smell of burning pine needles is one of the very few things that can bring me back in an instant.

The red embers burning and curling like a fiery beard upon the face of my memories.

This season brings contemplation on the last time the leaves fell…and where I was in life and what I’ve come to learn from it since. Maybe there’s a reason we all sit around a table and give thanks – maybe it’s in all of our bones.

I think looking at our lives in seasons is good. I think we should learn from the trees outside our windows. That is, to always be ready when things come and go and when the wind is too much for the last leaf standing.

What I’m trying to say is that we give thanks for the fruit.
We collect as roots dig down deep for the mighty Cold and remember how good they’ll be next time around. So know that when we see the leaves falling and the plants hiding, they are still alive. Perhaps they feel it all too. The way the Great Mystery leaves us all.

Thankful to dig our roots in for another season.

Pecans, Coffee and the Lounging Roach

2010-09-24T12:25:00.000-07:00

Many of us called her “G.G” – short for Great Grandmother. She was also known as Bonnie and to a few, Mother. She was my “mom’s mother’s Mom” if such a phrase makes sense. It’s the only way I can say it without the lineage becoming too fuzzy or dropping names that you probably already know.

G.G was a character in a world that seemed to be moving too fast. Walking into her home that had seen many transformations was always an event. In the colder seasons, it smelled of gas burning heaters and maybe a little something sweet. In the warmer parts of the year, it was the window unit that sat directly behind her kitchen table that pumped furiously cold air.

There always seemed to be (in my memory) a rolled down paper bag filled mostly of pecans and other various hard shelled snacks. The coffee pot was always hot and filled with the stuff that accompanies much conversation and friendship. Because you see…G.G had lots of visitors.

She owned a small trailer park behind her home that hugged a gas station and a main highway that led to the Gulf Coast. Driving by on the way to our favorite catfish house we’d say, “There’s G.G’s house!”

“Mother”, as my Gran and Great Aunts call her, was a storyteller. There was the one about the ghost that threw a flashlight at her from atop the refrigerator or the fact that she’d see people walking around her home and sitting in her furniture. It didn’t scare me much only because G.G felt pretty calm about it all. It never seemed to bother her that these things happened in her home.

My favorite is the one about the roach that would come out and watch TV with her. She would say the roach came out when she turned the TV on. It would prop itself against the chair as though it were lounging about. It was to be…an unexpected, but welcome friend in the house of Mrs. Bonnie Tate.

This is the same woman that had an out-of-body experience and swears she saw in real life, a UFO.
G.G would take my sister and me out to Ward’s every now and again for an “after-school snack” that consisted of those saliva-inducing Big One’s – which to you non-Southerners is a cheeseburger with chopped onions and chili. Oh and of course with French fries and a shake. What is a snack without your protein, veggies and dairy?

On cold days, my sister and I would huddle underneath a blanket in front of her tiny heater and watch Saved By the Bell, USA High and umm…oh yes, Barney. Why we watched Barney…I can’t remember nor does it matter. We were youngin’s and it was our comfort.

I miss her.

When I think about myself as an adult, I come to realize the things she taught us in her wisdom. Many things, I cannot remember. But her character and hospitality rubbed off on me and with no doubt, most of the people she knew and cared for.

We are all, in one way or another, a product of people like her:

a storyteller, a mother and a G.G.

peace and the art of breadmaking

2010-09-11T12:14:00.001-07:00

Too sticky…too flat…not enough time -- all the signs leading to my ultimate frustration and battle with the art of making bread.

I try to give myself simple tasks so I don’t feel too lousy for screwing up something as simple and delicious as bread. But there is a lot to this bread thing.

(And no using a bread machine! – not that I think it’s cheating or anything but...yeah, whatever. You’re so cheating! Hey, I guess bread is bread, right?)
Bread machines take up too much space for us tiny apartment dwellers.

I’m talking about: bread flour, water, yeast and salt; the basics of a simple baguette, ciabatta or French roll. It is my obsession – my journey – to bake good bread.

I want our kitchen to smell like a bakery.
I want dough rising and proofing and fermenting in our tiny kitchen.
I believe baking bread to be something of an ethereal experience.

It’s the idea of simplicity – a piece of bread with a cup of soup. A crunchy baguette with soft butter and maybe some of that delicious Nutella…oh yes…well, if you can afford it. Either way, it definitely does NOT suck.

It’s about measurements, time and more time. There’s stretching and folding and weighing. I am ultimately intimidated by these factors though I know the more I do it…the better I’ll be. I watch videos on Youtube. They’re okay. They’re all in industrial kitchens or use egg whites and weird rising agents. It looks fake and if I’m going to bake bread than by-golly, I’m gonna’ do it right!

So…I buy a book on baking. It has helpful pictures and good writing. Alas, I was able to produce something noteworthy.

My first French baguette.

It was slightly undercooked and a bit misshaped…but I thought it to be beautiful. It was a small but gratifying testament to many, many failures and wasted flour and tiny curse words.
I was finding peace in that sticky gluten.

Pulling…stretching…folding…coinciding with breath and time and floured surfaces. There is a great calm about bread. The smell of dough rising – to the sight and sound of crispy bread.

I think about why they call Your Body the Bread – something that has to be made new all the time.
I remember how radical it is to make things new over and over again.

Like bread.

Like peace.

Like love.

Like forgiveness.

(And all better with a little butter...)

Ending in the words of a local Portlander,

"love does not just sit there like a stone;
it has to be made, like bread,
remade all the time new."

- ursula k leguin

precious little bits.

2010-08-31T12:29:00.000-07:00

“I’m Hannah’s husband…” I said to the midwife wearing all white, which grew into the color of her long and wise head of hair.

“I know who you are…come in!” she said in an excited whisper.

I walk past a beautiful old black and gold stove that has cooked hot meals for many exhausted Mommas after giving birth to their sweet little ones. I am nervous and intimidated by these midwives – not so sure why, only because I think they come from the Earth and not a womb. I come to see them as mystics. I suppose it is all the same and I’m learning to see it that way.

I thank one of the midwives for doing such a great job as she points to my sister-in-law, Leah, and says, “It was her…she did everything.”

My wife, Hannah, was her sister’s doula and no doubt, all pieces of this birthing process were so equally important. Bryan, Momma T and the midwives were welcoming in a son, a grandchild and my newest nephew, Wellington Ray. I was simply in awe that a birth could be such an intimate and spiritual moment.

I always seem to contemplate on life and how two of the most influential women in my time on this earth are doulas of the beginning and the end of our journeys. I get the humbling opportunity to listen to these stories – stories of joy, struggle and mourning. I say this as the words joy, struggle and mourning can account for all areas of life.

I sometimes refrain from using the term, “death doula”, only because it sounds quite grim, but it should not be so. It is what it is and those who have experienced hospice care know the benefits of those final moments of peace and being surrounded by those things that comfort you. My mom is good at what she does. She has held many hands and has comforted the lives of the Beloved.

We are often kept away from these moments that claim our existence. How often do we get to be a part of an intimate birth or hold the hand of a person who is taking their last breaths?

It surely shakes our bones. It turns our thoughts back to mortality and flesh and time.

As I saw baby Welly for the first time, one thought among many was, “Wow…this guy has no cholesterol…” And to my amusement, it was real for me to see all things new again -- new heart, lungs, fingers and toes. [And precious little bits they are at that…]

Many of us come into this world wrinkly and bald – and many of us leave the same way. Needy, tired and always learning.
To the women in my life – always growing into gentle forces of nature. Sweet mommas, nurturing wives and mystics who bring life to our world; and for those who walk people through the end of their journey…

Thank you…

thank you…for giving us life and helping us to further understand its beauty.

all is well

2010-08-24T11:07:00.001-07:00

I sat underneath a big tree yesterday.

Its branches welcoming the Beloved -- we were here for something sacred, as I believe it had been a part of time and time again.
Its knots, dripping with sap and life and age.
It made an awfully fine alter for this time of communion.
The clouds were unusually dark for a summer’s day in Oregon. I could see on the fringes and great blue and white.

The sweet Mother came to sing “Amazing Grace” as we took our seats in this rhythmic mass. Her words came…as did the sun. Radiant and warm and filled me up inside.
I began to think about Jesus in the midst of these old branches and forgiving songs. I grew teary eyed and thankful to be part of the world. As a consumer of its dirt and the things I dream to plant. Perhaps it was just the way the earth moved at that particular moment.
Regardless…I felt forgiveness in my bones.

I knew that God was giving something tangible – something that helped me again to remember all that is bigger than myself. Stars and wind and earth – all around and full of such forgiveness. I looked up into that tiny moment of grace and spoke with Love.

I need a few moments here and there to remind me that the world works like this. It gives us those humble bits of warmth and breeze.

Theology can’t touch this sacred moment.
When friends join together in love – all is well.

All is well.

prayers of the asphalt

2010-08-23T14:36:00.001-07:00

I ignore you at the door of the grocery store and again and again off that damn interstate exit.
I get nervous knowing you’re there. Halfway leaning; falling asleep.
You are either good at what you do or you absolutely exhausted – either way, it doesn’t matter.
I give a few bucks when I have the courage.
Other times, I act like I’m in a hurry, or scuffle around the things in my car.
This same car that separates me from that hot asphalt.
Don’t look.
Pretend. Pretend. Pretend.
Turn your music down just in case he or she says something.
But I’m just too ashamed.
How to help the beggar? The question we will always think on.
It’s usually answered with tight lips and a discerning,
“Use your own judgment…”
For the poor will inherit the Kingdom of God...
and I will inherit the dirt.
Or the fact that all these things are made of dirt in some way or the other.
The dirt that marks your skin;
the stripes of poverty;
a badge of oppression.
Back to what breaks my heart –
because it breaks Yours.
To drink from Your cup and give freely.

This is my prayer today.

we were revolutionaries

2010-08-10T12:45:00.001-07:00

we will remember the day we were revolutionaries...
writing love and peace on our hats and worn sleeves...
we would lay in the grass and talk freedom

ready for change at all costs -- generally from our parents wallets.
oh, the luxury of that time.

yes. we were warriors against apathy and injustice...
excited to smoke our first cigarette and expecting it to taste like it does in the movies..

but it doesn't.
it burns and dries your throat.
you choke a little...at first.

we grow and become a little soft.
not as angry anymore and looking for love in the weeds
we travel and learn more and more that we really don't know much at all.

that's the funny thing about living elsewhere...
things become fuzzy.
what used to not make sense makes even less sense...

but it's okay.
we find people to do life with who ask the same questions.

we fall in love and realize that going to bed at night with your husband or wife
gives you the most peace you've had all day.

we still talk revolution,
but in the ways that require a lifetime.

and, well...a lifetime is what we have.

in my closet you'll find my hat...with the words "God is love"
worn down to the rim, it sits there.
it reminds me what it means to be a revolutionary.
to love deep, deep down.

and to remember that love is always revolutionary.

the working poor [and why people just don't get it]

2010-07-26T12:42:00.000-07:00

I'm reading a book right now entitled, "The Working Poor" by David K. Shipler
I'm not very far into it, but the first sentence pretty much broke me down...
He writes:

"Most of the people I write about in this book do not have the luxury of rage..."

And so it goes, the oxymoronic term, "working poor" - why those who work generally the hardest (most physical) jobs are often the poorest.
"No one who works hard in America should be poor", he writes. And I presume anywhere, for that matter.

They do not get the luxury to complain or fight for something better. Most companies know they can hire this labor pretty quickly.
They cannot save for a better opportunity or afford healthcare.

The working poor are an ER bill or major car problem away from losing their means.
It is far more complex than the word "poverty" even entails, because generally, when most folks imagine people who live in poverty or at the poverty line in the US, are lazy welfare driven men and women who won't get their act together.

In reality, they are the invisible.
They wrap your food in large factories and clean up your mess as you check out of your hotel room.

"The man who washes cars does not own one. The clerk who files cancelled checks at the bank has $2.02 in her own account. The woman who copy-edits medical textbooks has not been to the dentist in a decade."

Something is severely wrong.
I'm not sure what the poverty line in America is, or if I'm there...which, surely, we are close.
I am though, a doctor's bill or a major expense away from completely having to rely on family or friends. [And the luxury of having extended family, though they are not necessarily rich, but generous.]

You make it to the next paycheck in hopes that there is nothing radical you must pay for - which just blows my mind that folks with expensive cable and big TVs are considering themselves poor. That new iPhone apparently wasn't a big deal, eh?

Some of us have the luxury to live simply. We can choose what we want to get rid of out some place of ridiculous excess.
Meanwhile, there are the men and women who grow your food and sew your clothes that are fighting to keep up as we shave unnecessary luxuries from our lives.
And granted, simplicity is important and I hope is encouraged. Simplicity as legalism is dangerous. This is when our excess shines the most.

If I've learned anything about the poor or working poor, is that it is a constant fight. It is a fight out of homelessness, welfare or addiction. It is a fight to maintain something normal in the midst of various and numerous socio-economic problems.

The person in that tall building somehow gets paid $100,000 more a year than the person cleaning their floor and having to answer to asshole bosses who cut wages and hours to improve profit.
They will most likely never have to worry about feeding their babies or fixing their car because that oil change just wasn't in the budget. [And it rarely ever is.]

Our value system is severely messed up.
Recession or excess in our country doesn't matter too much for the working poor. They have no investments nor will they ever have the luxury of saving money for a better opportunity.

My fear is that people just don't and won't really get it. There is nothing wrong with making money, but there is something wrong with where our money holds value. It is the same for food culture. People would be able to afford more vegetables and better processed and humanely farmed animal products if we simply did not have all of this government money going to places like T.G.I McFunsters, Sodexo or Monsanto.

Oddly enough, the folks who work under those types of places and companies are in fact, the working poor.

My hope is that we shift our views on which types of jobs deserve more money.
There is absolutely no reason a farmer should need to sell their farm to survive.

They are the invisible.
Look more closely, and you'll see them.
They'll be carrying much more than their workload...

...but you will see them.

my rant on WI-FI

2010-07-15T11:38:00.000-07:00

[As a preface, I direct all of this upon myself, because I am an addict of destination wifi spots and the "oh so" convenient idea of wireless internet...EVERYWHERE.]

It's a sunny day in Portland, so most are outside. Sipping their Rosé and snacking on some nice home-baked goodies.
I notice the inside crowd.
Hunkered in front of their laptops -- generally facebook or twitter or other time consuming and mindless programs.

I hear everyone yelp that the internet is down and that it sucks and isn't reliable.
Now, I know in cafe/coffee shop culture, good internet means longer sitters. That doesn't mean more business, but only that your cafe looks busier. Which, like I said, is not usually the case.

If a person has to pay two bucks for a cup of coffee, you're gonna bet their gonna be sitting there for five hours and jump on you every time the router knocks them off.
Most compliments and complaints I hear throughout my days in the cafe world revolve around the fact that the WI-FI is good and dependable.
What about the coffee? What about the food? What about our glowing faces that love picking up your nasty habits?

My problem is not so much with the Internet...though we are connected and disconnected by it in several ways...
My problem is the understood idea that it has to be EVERYWHERE in order for a place to be "good". We get pissed when airplanes don't have wifi! [Anyone see that Louis C.K. bit?? Ok, anyways...]

What is this need to have internet everywhere??
I swear, I see people come in and hardly say a word before they pull out their iTouch or iPhone and go at it..never making eye contact - just a rushed, "...thanks!" as they nearly run into the door before looking up from their shiny toys.

But, I have an iTouch and I like that I can check the internet at places without having to have a computer. Hell, I even have a data plan on my phone so I can check email.
I ask myself, "Is it really that important?"
My inbox does not need to be in my front pocket at all times.

As I come to a place in life where I will soon be getting rid of internet in my home, I'll find it necessary to find a place where I can connect, but maybe not so much more on a daily basis.
The internet and I have a sketchy past, and I don't want it to come back anytime soon.

It will be in my best interest to fight this. To fight the urge to always know I can look at my inbox - to update where I'm at...or what I'm doing...
Maybe I'll learn again to bring a book. Or a pen and some paper...and maybe a good friend.

Hopefully I'll learn to look around again.

It is an addiction I'm fighting to break.
No, the world does not need me on the internet writing silly blogs and rants, such as this - though I must say, it feels damn good to do so.
And I am not kissing this idea goodbye cold turkey, but it is a start.

We lived fine without it.

I think we can do it again

"perhaps we begin again, shyly.."

2010-07-12T12:11:00.001-07:00

There's this song by My Brightest Diamond called, "The Ice & The Storm"
I've always found it to be a song on communication and perhaps the lack there of.

The Ice, being a metaphor for miscommunication, builds up in our places of shared intimacy.
The Storm, being that of "hashing out" and conversation, is the force that drives us all to talk about our heart's place within each other.

And so it goes, the ice builds and builds until we are absolutely cold.
We wish for that storm, but have no way to go about it.
Until...it happens.
The ice shatters and falls from our mouths like an avalanche.

It is now that we begin to heal and confide within each other and remember our sacred places and our need to know each other fully.

I'm not some expert on marriage, nor do I know the secrets of its place in our lives, but I do know that without communicating to each other what you need and how you feel, that ice builds up awfully heavy.

It is the thing we humans do best, but often forget how to do thoughtfully - active listening and giving. God forbid we know [at all times] what the other person is thinking.
It's the lesson I'm learning and fumbling through.

It's amazing the weight of this ice, as it slowly chips away from our frustrated hearts into a place of understanding. After all, you know you both love each other deeply. I believe it is in our human nature to assume all too much from others in how we learn to understand the ones we choose to do life with.

All this could be complete gibberish, as I'm still trying to figure it out myself. I'm not the best at communicating verbally, hence my introverted and quiet personality. It doesn't mean that I can't work on becoming a more thoughtful person...in listening and giving.
Which I guess is what this is all about.

A lot of marriage is giving and receiving and learning when to do both. I think that each, in and of itself, is crucial to a good relationship. You learn how it works when you live life with someone.

I think we could all learn to be a bit more thoughtful in our interactions - and I place much of this into my own self, knowing good and well I can be a selfish sun'uva gun.

And I hope some of this made sense, in the midst of my own processes, trying to figure out the ice and the storm...

and learning to, as the song says...

let it go.
let it go.
let it go.

change gonna come. [soulful sirens]

2010-07-08T16:50:00.000-07:00

He throws down his tip box on the curb side, straightens up his shirt and sings.
I hear, belted out, those familiar words to an old song,

"I was born by the river..."

Sam Cooke's, A Change is Gonna Come fills the back streets along the French Quarter - weaving in and out of drunken circles and out-of-towners on that haunted tour.
It's a wistful cry to a reality close to home and rings constantly in the back of my mind.

Is change gonna come?
If so, will it last?

By day your stocking shelves...arranging retail or putting up with arrogant upper class and/or disaster tourists...
By night, these streets are your rehearsals...your stage...and you, are our Soulful Sirens, stopping us dead in our tracks...if not physically, then most definitely spiritually.

Around the Rues of Bourbon, Chartres and Royal, the songs and sounds of these streets remind me that these words and voices are important in our understanding of culture...
We cling to change, as we hope for better and more promising futures - but are reminded that some change is not sustainable. We lose "umph" - for lack of better wording.

It sinks in when I've left.
When something about that place is beyond my means of understanding.
The beignets and dark silhouettes find their places in a production of something far more substantial than I can come to realize.

I like this place...if even for a night.
It settles me back into an understanding that time heals...

And that we always hold on to that...because in the recesses of our souls...

..a change gonna'come...
oh, yes it will...

what Mother gave to us.

2010-06-25T12:15:00.001-07:00

I think about the harvest.
Whether or not a farmer is sad to see those greens, reds, browns and golds disappear from the dirt he or she's tilled from start to finish.

I wonder if there's sadness and hopefully thankfulness as it produced a good yield. Another year to grow. Back to this tired dirt and placing that worn down wood back into those worn down hands.

There must be some sort of spirituality to this practice of digging up dirt and planting new life. To plant -- To grow -- to harvest.
Somewhere, you're putting food in someone's belly and that has to be meaningful.

I'm not exactly sure where all these thoughts came from.
Maybe as I sit on my back steps and look at the baby greens stemming from our old wooden crates and pots, I imagine life and I think about its yield.

There's the sun and water and those hands that placed their gentle and sacred roots into new soil. A metaphor of times past, present and future. Look around nature, we are all designed to mimic one another.
Our roots, branches and leaves. A sacred swaying of Mother Earth and humanity - generally, Momma taking better care of us than we do of her.

We get chances to put back in what we've taken out. Not nearly as genuine as a ripe tomato or a fragrant stem of thyme and bay leaf - but an opportunity to give thanks for such a meaningful exchange.

The red stains my fingers as I indulge in these Oregon strawberries and raspberries - a burst of something so good and sweet it can only be from love. The gift of these tastes - I dare not ever find myself ungrateful for their season in our lives.

Those seasons, we eat what's good, when it's good. And selfishly mourn when they hide their roots for the cold again. We're thankful and sad as sweet grows into bittersweet.
We'll see you again next year, God willing.

Plentiful harvest for the Beloved,
thankful for my daily bread,

and thankful,
for what Mother gave to us.

we are angry.

2010-06-18T18:55:00.001-07:00

I know it's worthless to rant.
I know there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.

But I say,
We are angry.
[and so very sad.]
And so we should be.
I sit helplessly watching this decrepit pipe gush oil in the waters of my homeland.

I watch from the coast of the Pacific Northwest and exclaim the beauty of these waters; the cold crisp blue into dark mysterious rock.

This dirty water, washing upon the very sand I dug my toes into as a child, now littered with black sludge...and there's no end in sight.

I stand thankful for a new president and politics are not my forte -- but may we not forgot the apathy of Katrina. When it happens somewhere else, it is out of sight and out of mind.
We need action. We need accountability.

We can blow up a country, but instead, we're slowly killing ours.

We need people working those two lousy robotic arms 24 hours a day until the job is done.
I understand the difficulty of the logistics, but my friends, we are much stronger than that. And as we've seen, we're much more dangerous to ourselves than we've ever imagined.

The earth groans.
She cries for help and we're stuck watching birds lose their wings and fisherman lose their nets.
It hurts me because this is how many of my people make a living. And it's not a glorious living. It's fishing. It's cigarettes and too much alcohol...but for the sake of humanity, it's how they put food on the table.

I ask that we continue to not be silent - to cry and continue making others remember that there is this wound in our Gulf bleeding upon the shores of my Beloved Deep South.
This is a fight involving everyone - not just the fisherman and residents of the Gulf, but for humanity. We speak louder than any government or president -- so let us speak.

let us speak.

people. [and the hurtful hot chocolate guy]

2010-06-15T13:26:00.000-07:00

Everyday, I watch people shake hands, hug and talk.
I watch people love and often, become angry at one another. [And sometimes, towards myself.]

This is the life of someone who has a tiny part in one person's struggle to learn the other.

We are all simply fascinated with one another. I don't think we'll come out and say it, but we are. This is why TV provides such great entertainment. We love watching fake lives. We love watching real lives. Drama or no drama, we are fascinated that other people live, eat and talk like we do [and billions of others who do not.]

This is also why Facebook is so damn addicting.

I think hard about the people who show their distaste in something I make...or am a part of making. Walking up to the counter, they say, "This wasn't good." **In obvious passive aggressive tone**

It was a hot chocolate. You didn't like it because you didn't like the chocolate...that's not really my issue..but you made it known to me.
[My heart hardens.]

And the thing is, you kept telling me it wasn't good, somehow trying to put me in my place. I was decent in my response telling you it was a different chocolate, but you were bent on making me feel very small.
There are so many ways to say how you feel, but when you choose a way that is hurtful, you've done so much more damage than you think.

I don't understand this.
It's what makes me nervous about eating out with certain family and friends who make it well known that their food sucked or something was wrong.
I get embarrassed. I know how it feels and I know those of you who have worked in this line of business know how it feels. It makes you [and me] angry people.

And so it goes, the next person apologizes...or makes it known that they extremely grateful [and my heart softens again.]

I learn how my soul aches for justice and dignity. I think on the people that have absolutely no say in the destructive decisions other people make in their lives. My heart especially breaks at the site of one person demeaning another. It's so childish, but I see it all the time. And, as it breaks my heart, I see it in myself.

I don't think we communicate really well. At least, the way we see it on TV is generally not how we should act in real life, though sometimes we learn from it. Our natural reaction to something unpleasing involves more anger than it should, if any at all. This stuff is on TV for a reason, because we know if we all acted that crazy, we wouldn't have any friends. If we did have friends it was people that liked the idea of you; not you as a person.

I think we assume people automatically understand us and our intentions. Believe it or not, people can't read your mind or expect you to do exactly what they're thinking. We get upset when we are let down.

We have high expectations and get utterly discouraged when we realize that life, for the most part, works better in its simplicity.
But this isn't romantic, you know?

Working everyday.
Buying groceries.
Cooking food and eating.
Conversation.
Laughing.
Visiting.

These things are beautiful in their simplicity, but not nearly interesting enough to be on TV.
Funny enough, I love watching people eat and talk about food.
Sitting down for food at a table is the great equalizer.

I beg of you, whoever read this, to be kind to those who make your food. Even if it's not good...let them know, but not in a way that's hurtful. They need to know, but not at the expense of how they view you from now on.

I'm not the best at communicating, but I'm willing to work on it for the sake of our Belovedness.

And for you, hurtful hot chocolate guy:

...!@#$ you.
(just kidding.)

kind of.

2010-06-14T13:39:00.001-07:00

messy economics [and the pickle man]

2010-06-08T10:32:00.001-07:00

I'm afraid of power.
Having it and working under its great strain.

It's that lifting of my head to a person who controls the money I make and the mood I'm in. Your day is good or bad depending on the mood of the people that sign your checks and give you some sort of purpose within this free market economy.

I think and think and wonder what sort of work is meaningful to me...
[because it's all about me, right?]
To some extent...well, to a lot of extent, I want to be happy with my work.
Usually the things aren't as glamorous as they seem.
I don't believe anything is as glamorous as it seems.

My work has to be meaningful. [And I'll fight for this when I can.]
Money has this way of bonding me to its oppressive worth. I need it...want more of it...but make just enough that I don't have to ask for more...[but more would be...helpful?]

Most decisions are made because of money. It's a huge stressor and ends many relationships. It's corrupt and dirty, but also redeeming and dignifying given the right [and just] circumstances.

I've learned a lot in this business. Creativity is lost as mega-corporations make decisions. The little guy/girl is forced to fight hard to make a little in the midst of economic doubt. People go with the brand name...even if it's more expensive. We have such little faith in local stimuli.
I think this is a mindset that needs readjusting. I know I have been uncomfortable in the past with local business. Local product. Watching local try to make it big and fail.

I think about the pickle guy in Picayune who used to be a math teacher and feeling pretty sketchy about the pickles he made in his house.
Now, I'd rather eat the craft of peoples imagination than those radioactive and addicting boneless chicken wings at Applebees.

It's what we find value in. As my buddy Jon talks about the value of money -- the dollar only has value because we believe it has value. I think this is how the stock market works to some extent, but I don't really know. It still confuses me and I don't really care to figure it out. I know green is good and red is bad.
This same value goes for most things we buy, love and share our lives with..
And I hope we don't value people like we value the worth of money.

We lose faith in money, we're in trouble.
We lose faith in people, we're in even more trouble.

So I think on this. I think that things would get better if we started to trust others with more. Give them a more dignifying responsibility. Support their ideas and push for better, sustainable and local products.
We all live in around plots of dirt - we can grow things, right? We can go to the little grocery stores owned by Mr. and Mrs. and their son or daughter?

The older I get, the more I am worried with sustainable income and fully understanding that the decisions I make now effect the things I do [for money] in the future.

I think it's good that I'm learning with people who cut out spending money on crappy fillers and focus on local goods. I know it's better. It has to be, right?
You think about how much *given* product costs. You think about how many hands it passes through to get into your shopping cart. Think about that $3.00 product you just bought...and that everyone who touched that product wanted a profit.

Either someone is getting screwed [usually the farmer or producer] or the product is crappy to begin with. This is messy. This is why it's so very important that we use our buying power to support the people that really need it. It is a shame that the very people we owe our livelihood to can't afford groceries of their own.

What do you find value in? There is a difference between a cheap product and a human being. Unfortunately, there isn't a difference in the two in many places...where the product being sold...is the human.

There is great sadness here.

And this is where my heart has been thinking.
What dignity are we giving to one another with our decisions?

May we continue to dwell on the Beloved.

People are of greatest worth - not what they do or what they sell...but who they are.

celebrate with the Beloved,

...and have faith in the pickle man.

the empty space.

2010-06-03T14:14:00.000-07:00

There's this empty space that belongs to God.
Generally, it's filled with things of my own pleasure.
Nice things. Shiny and colorful. Probably expensive.

When this empty space isn't so empty, things feel great.
Paying bills. Buying nice food. Spending money on things that'll eventually turn back into dirt.
You're a big deal...you make a good bit of change...you're respected and have a title. For Heaven's sake, you're even on a salary!

All of a sudden, things shift and this full place loses a lot of those shiny and colorful bits. Next thing you know, those bills are lookin' mighty stressful and your things lose value significantly.
This space starts looking awfully bare. You start to notice the cracks in the wall and how creaky the floors really are...

It starts poking at your humanity. "What are you actually good for? Hey! I asked what good are you?"
The world gets scary and you want to be at home, but you're stuck walking in a heavy downpour.
Lifeboat economics start playing over in your mind..."Yeah...what am I good for?"
I can't build anything out of wood...or grow food...or fix a car [or person].

However, in the void of this empty space...you remember..."Yeah...this, was God's.."
You start to remember that your value is not placed in things or money. You aren't what you do...or what you wear...not even who people think you are.
This space...that you thought was empty, was actually filled with much more than you thought. It was filled with a sense of community...love...and dignity.

You remember again, what it was like to be in Communion with God...
You remember that people are of absolute greatest worth. Every.Single.One.

All of a sudden, things become a bit more brilliant with each glance. A hug feels ten times warmer and a poem breaks your heart in the best ways possible.

Yes. God owns this empty space.
Sensitive, deep and true.
There God is! -- silent and fierce. gentle and ferocious.
[and it is, love.]

I am not what I do. I am not what I wear. I am not who people think I am.

I am, though, held and filled with fierce and gentle love.

prayer [and the uncomfortable change]

2010-06-01T11:36:00.000-07:00

I remember a time long ago when I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep until I had said something to God. I called it prayer. But mostly it was half conscious mumbling before falling asleep at two or three in the morning.

It was like a final confession or some sort of relief to get the guilt of not praying off my back.
I’m not sure why it was associated with guilt, but I felt as though I’d be a half-ass Christian..or whatever we “Christ-followers” call ourselves these days..

“Well…I mean, I believe in and love God…but….I, ya know, believe some other things too…but I do love Jesus and God..” - this sorta happens and could well be where I’m at most days. Oh, the connotation of the word: Christian. [But that’s for another day.]

I felt that prayer was the only way God would hear me. There was some combination of my closed eyes plus a quiet environment that made me feel God could hear me better and with more intent than any other time of the day.

This habit became not so much of a habit as soon as college night life and other environmental factors took over.
But..I still talked to God.

At least, I believe God listens when we are intentional, right? No organ music…no alter call…just thinking about God…and passing on a few desperate words.
It’s an awful shame I can’t devote more, most days. I should know better I feel at peace the more so I do…I just can’t seem to legitimize much of what I want to say.

I feel so very selfish.
I understand God is just.
But sometimes it feels so damn complex.

Things are changing a lot in my life…as we speak. New ownership. Being demoted. Interviews for a new [and exciting] position with Stumptown Coffee Roasters here in Portland.
I’m uneasy about it all.

It’s change..and as most change goes, it’s incredibly uncomfortable. It’s like a new pair of pants that just don’t fit as well as the ones you’ve broken in. It’s unfamiliar…and seemingly all things, “un”.

So I talk to God…and I say this:
“God…I know this seems quite petty…but I would love so much this new job…and if you could help me seem a bit more confident..it would just be so nice…to have this job and to not worry so much…”

And yadda yadda…

But this is where I’ve come these days…
“…and I fully understand that even while I pray for this job..I may not get it and there’s a decent possibility I won’t get it…that’s the reality. So I won’t be angry at You for not hookin’ a brotha up..

ps. [and what it comes down to..]
but it really would help…love you!”

Lately…I’ve found prayer to be more about peace than something beneficial.
Most times, when I get the courage to deeply contemplate on God’s love, I can’t get past a few seconds without almost completely breaking down. It’s an odd thing…this sort of confession.
It’s the realization of how little I really am. It’s the brokenness of my humanity staring back into watery eyes…

I’m thankful, for this uncomfortable change and how it allows me revert back into a sense of reality and how the world doesn’t owe me anything. I can think of a few billion people that deserve a better life than me.

I remember Anne Lamott, as she refers to most of her prayers, “Help me, help me…”
And as life moves on, she eventually responds, “Thank you…thank you…thank you..”

for the lifting of heavy burdens,
for the food in my belly,
for the love of humanity,
for peace and justice,

thank you.
thank you.
thank you.

a weighty ghost [and your purpose driven relationship]

2010-05-25T10:14:00.001-07:00

For some reason, I hit my deepest points of philosophical reasoning and messy spirituality five minutes or so before falling asleep at night. It seems there's this place my brain goes to shut down -- to filter out the noise that helps me fall asleep.
What I'm left with are things that are often scary and true, gut wrenching and humorous.

I feel bad for Hannah, who half-awake, nods and responds..."Honestly, I'm listening, but don't have the energy to respond--" I laugh, agree and lay my head down.

Which is completely understandable and puts me at ease...the listening and the humor of midnight ramblins' - I've grown to call them.

I live life in a city that centers around justice, local economics and equality.
So all day, I'm around people who deeply care about...a lot of things.
It rubs off.

I found myself saying the other night before entering into one of my half-conscious wonderings, "I find it easier these days to say that I believe in humanity..."
A lot shifted in my heart.
I mean, I believe in God though.... At least that's the default, right?

Then, I slipped deeper and deeper into a state of faith-crisis. If God is not part of my love for humanity, equality and love, than where do I stand?
Well, this becomes difficult. I know a lot of people who love others out of their love of that person...or idea...or cause.
And it's love. And it's good. It doesn't need to be rooted into anything else, right?

You can have great morality without God, right?

Most of these, I answered, yes.
Yes...of course you can.

But then, something else happened.
I thought about 'good without God' and it became awfully empty and sad.
Like bread without yeast or a house built on sand...

You see, it's hard for me...to not see God in everything...and especially everything that's morally good.
Because God has become a friend over the years...
God in masculine and feminine. An endless cycle of comfort, breath, pain and redemption.

I tend to, at times, revert back to this monastic feeling of God. I see the iconic images of Mary with child, the saints dressed in their warm reds, browns and yellows. I contemplate on who God was for these people -- God was life -- God was peace -- God was in the harvest.

And in my most panicked sense of faith, I remember this. I remember that God dwells in the destruction. God dwells in my sense to know Her more. God dwells in this Weighty Ghost.

The motivation of love for my fellow sister and brother stems from my relationship with God -- and this relationship with God involves many things. Not just being nice or doing something good for another..but practicing peace and abandoning your freedom to cause damage to yourself, society and others.

I don't like purpose driven relationships.
I don't like the idea of befriending someone for the sake of some greater cause, especially for religious reasons.
I feel like I've done this in the past as a product of street evangelism and "the net" mentality that urges you to pull in as many people as you can with your story or testimony or knowledge of scripture.

Now, I believe there are times when this is important. When your story and your life connects you deeply with God and with others - but I do think it's harmful when your friend discovers the whole point of your relationship was to force something into their lives that they may not be comfortable with.

I believe this is what it's like to be in Communion with God. Not just on Saturdays and Sundays -- but to breathe in rhythm with this peace that we are a broken body and we are the Beloved. Being part of a body means you all have the freedom to move separately -- but deep down, are connected by a life giving source. [And no, I'm not getting all 'Avatar' on you]

I used to think being called a "Friend of God" was cheesy and slightly more biblical than I wanted it to sound...but these days, it's hard to separate with the fact that I'm reliant on this Spirit of peace, grace and love.

And at the end of the day when I can barely lift my head..
I'm awfully thankful for this Weighty Ghost.

The Conversation of a Life [I want your thoughts.]

2010-05-18T11:49:00.001-07:00

I had this thought after watching "Notorious" - the movie inspired by the life and death of Christopher Wallace..aka Notorious B.I.G. aka.. "Biggie Smalls" [And really taken aback by the fact he was killed at the age of 24]

I was thinking on Tupac Shakur and the likes...the seeming revolutionaries that lived life too short and too fast. Killed by the very thing they were speaking at and against...the fact that they were sharing with us what the world had put upon them. [And granted, the harm and disrespect that came out of those views..]

But what this led to...was a thought about a conversation.

I thought about people sitting at a table, and these were the attending participants:
MLK Jr.
Malcolm X
Gandhi
Tupac
John Lennon
& Mother Teresa

And granted, mostly everyone at this table had been killed by some sort of lunatic or radical extremist - but I threw Momma T in there because I believe she to be equally important in this conversation.

I am not deeply knowledgeable about any one person at this table...but I figure maybe some of you have some idea about who would totally dig each other and who would have issues -
Everyone at this table was revolutionary is one way or the other - mostly all of them seeking peace in various philosophies and practices, yet most of them differ by religion and personal belief.

I believe all of these people in one way or the other had a passion for justice and love - who all had huge hearts for humanity and equality.

With their love of humanity, and their personalities so different, yet inspired by their will to change society - what topics would come up? How would they be constructive...or who would call someone out..?

Personally, I'd love to see Tupac and Momma T hang -- I think they'd have more in common than we'd think.

the trees will bend in sacred grace

2010-05-12T11:10:00.001-07:00

Things are really scattered.
The world is bleeding from oceans and rock and ice.
A man kills a teacher and her children with a butcher's knife and somehow, we wipe our foreheads at the end of the day and give thanks.

Markets are crashing around the world and terrorism finds its way onto our streets. Something we, as Americans, are just not used to.
We're not used to bombs or threats or running from our tables that are still topped with warm food.

I contemplate on the reality of our friends, brothers and sisters who face this reality of hell on earth every.single.day.
It makes other things seem...really, really small. Like the guy who honked his horn at me for nearly cutting him off -- and I say to myself, "Really, you're angry?? YOU'RE ANGRY??"
And sure, he has a right to be - only he doesn't know it was an accident, his anger is evident when he rode on my bumper and so viciously let me know I did something wrong.

I think about this; day in and day out - the things that anger us and the ungrace of others upon our tired and restless souls. [And granted, our anger upon them.]

Blessed humanity, I pray for peace in our conversation and interactions.
I think about war in the sense of arguing - does either side walk away with a sweet and well-earned victory?
Does arguing between husband and wife portray what he or she is actually feeling? The longer and louder you scream does not prove your point and there's nothing useful about this.

I always walk away - angry at myself for getting so worked up. I know better and should know better next time...but I'm just so damn stubborn and I wonder if it's human nature to WANT to win. [I didn't use to think so, but that was just me..] I didn't think that was ever my goal, but I see it more and more.
Winning is being right - Winning is burying your partner in their wrongness...

And that feeling you think is winning...is actually a huge loss. A loss of peace and a loss of recognition as equals.

So here comes this word "Grace" that, depending on the person, may or may not be correlated with Jesus.
Humanity has the capacity for grace, regardless of religion. Whether or not we use it, I believe, is the biggest witness to our capacity for Love and this Love that Jesus spoke about when he walked around this dusty earth so long ago.

I understand there's complexity in this - that for you, Jesus may or may not have been a real person, or the Son of God and maybe you understand the philosophy of yourself is good enough.

But at the end of the day...the trees do bend and they do not break.
There's a grace in that wind - giving and taking as the ebb and flow of breathing and that essence of our life-being.

Grace...is the essence of life-being, giving and taking.

And those trees will show us more than we'll ever know.

moving in.

2010-05-04T12:24:00.001-07:00

In and out of sacred spaces, we place our things.
We place on our shelves what are meaningful and what we like to see at eye level from time to time.

Our homes are collectively who we are.
The paint. The cracks. The smells.

I remember my friends houses smelling like their laundry detergent. I had always wondered if my house had a "smell". Which I assumed after a while that...it did. [I guess kind of like getting used to the smell of your own deodorant.]

A lot of family and friends are in transition right now from place to place. Old homes nurturing new life. A great communion between old and new.

I contemplate on where I live now.
I think about the many new radicals that believe just because they go to live in "that" neighborhood, they are a shining light in the world. That maybe, their presence will create lasting change...
I think this assumption can be damaging. Not always to your neighbors, but in a lot of ways, to yourself.
And I am guilty of thinking and living this way during certain times.

We create this idea that we're providing a better life just by...living next door. This goes to assume that our neighbors are in need of our "goodness" and our bachelor degrees in various fields that don't actually provide us with jobs once leaving our hormone filled universities.

Because we happen to be educated and passionate about change. We are inherently good wherever we go.
But this is where some damage happens. [And I dare not speak upon others, but of my own experience of this..]
Gentrification happens. Prices go up. People are forced to move out.
It's imperialistic. To think our presence in a community will help the locals - only to assume that this "change" we originally thought to be good and exciting, is forcing residents of 20 plus years to pick up there things, and move to places they can afford.

And granted, there are plenty of times when this doesn't happen. I look at Shane's community in Philly and how beautifully they've planted gardens on rooftops and protested local ammunition stores. But they have also lived there for over a decade and have had countless disasters and have sang many sad songs.

I come at this conflicted, and do not further want to dig myself into a deeper contradiction.

But whatever happened to just...living?
I think the older I get and perhaps more experienced at living within cultures of diversity, I see how important it is to live. I don't believe you have to create a non-profit community center in your first year in order to feel like you belong...but the simple act of respecting the people you live near.

Simple acts of peace - I dream.

I remember what John Perkins said to Shane as they were sitting on the doorstep on their community home in Philly. Shane stated, "Ya know, it's been over three years and there isn't any sign of change..." As John replied, "Oh, you'll start seeing something in 10 or so years..maybe 12.."

And this is important. To understand what a community needs.

When you move into a place, you bring who you are. You bring your brokenness.
You also the see the brokenness of your neighbors.

The conversations with my neighbors generally take place when they apologize for being drunk and loud or when their dog craps in our small front yard. But, we've learned to avoid the mine field of doggy defecation.

We've lived here for over a year now and as far as I'm concerned...

we're still moving in.

What I've Been Wanting to Say

2010-04-27T11:01:00.001-07:00

I was mid way through college when I started to feel this thing inside of my chest itch relentlessly.
There was something about an old van driving through pockets of life from what Don Miller called, "Painted Deserts".

It caused a shift in the way I saw most things. Human interactions. People. Pain. Nature.
There was now this giant hole that needed to be filled.

And that itch became unbearable. I needed something scary to knock me from the comforts of academia and home. Not because of something radical or interesting - but because there was this hole..

Social Justice.
The man and woman and child on the street.
Cigarettes and sweet soda.
Chocolate icing and spaghetti.

Vomit. Blood.
More cigarettes.

That's when I learned justice was social.
It involved smelling like cigarettes day in and out.

Justice was a sandwich or a cup of coffee and place to sit for a few hours.

Justice then became freedom.
Freedom from the injustice of politics and cultural stigma.

Freedom was a blanket. A job. A cup of tea.

And so now, as I feel so distant from those steps along my journey, I am faced with another movement in my soul.
It's not just one, but the sum of oppression.

Now it's advocating healthcare and regulations.

Now, I'm no longer capable of giving those blurry Christian answers to "hot button" issues like the GLBT community and whether or not God's love includes them in the Beloved.

Now, it's police brutality, power and money, money, money.

Now, it's standing up with women in their fight for equality...
(and my reinforced belief that something important is happening and women are [and have been] on the forefront)
It's all overwhelming. The systematic changes that need, no wait, that HAVE to happen.

In all of these things, it's a fight for equality. It's every day conversation. It's how you treat your wife, daughter, friend, father and brother. It's reconciliation. These interactions are important, I believe. Teaching our children to love all peoples, regardless of what their friends at school say.
I believe it's harder than I imagine - but when you're working for peace, I don't believe there is anything more important.

I think a great deal of these things emphasize learning.
Which is where I'm at these days.
It's being present in my neighborhood...and noticing obvious anger and relational walls.
It's when you fear you are being part of newly gentrified areas...only, it's what we can afford. It's where we feel comfortable...but hoping it doesn't neglect our neighbors and force them even further to the fringes of low-income neighborhoods. This is what we fear...this is what we fight against.

But, we're learning by being here. The books we're reading an the people we're meeting. Knowledge is indispensable and requires you to act...and action requires giving.

And as cowardly as I am...giving is taking the first step out of apathy.
Giving is life.
Giving is peace.
Giving is love.
Giving is justice.

buddy fish [another tale of the south]

2010-04-22T14:32:00.000-07:00

My tiny niece calls her little brother, "Buddy Fish" sometimes. Well, she calls him Buddy and naturally his last name is Smith. But when it comes out, it sounds like "Fish".
Here, lies the legend of Buddy Fish.

Actually, there's no legend. I just thought it was really funny and one of the most [for lack of better word] precious things I've seen in a long time.
Like...when they hold hands in the back seat or smile and laugh.
[and when they scream...that somehow itches the inside of my brain. :P]

- - - - -

Feeling that Mississippi wind is truth.
It's what my skin is made of and what my tongue speaks from time to time...
It's real and hot and full of little brown spiders.

I miss it and wonder if it's getting more "countrified" or if I've just been away for a while...and truth is, I've just been away for a while.
And sometimes, that's sad. To know something so deep, and at the same, have it seem so unfamiliar.
Like walking into the best hole-in-the-wall joint and having people look at you like your some foreigner. "I grew up here..." I want to say. "I sang at this church and spent a lot of free time on this boulevard!"

But I'm different, unlike that cheeseburger that's been the same price since 1961.
Not to mention, when it's topped with chili and roast beef.

Sinful isn't the word for something that good - maybe I'll take it the other way around and call it heavenly.
Yep. Heavenly.

I think about the rivers I live on now...the mountains I can see from the bridges I cross everyday and think about the coupons at Claiborne Hill and the old church where my Grandad rests..

Breath, laden thick with sweet gardenia and that warm sun that shines on my shoulders, I recognize that this place has shifted in my head - how I see it is mostly the same, but a little blurry - a little rearranged and on the move.
For the folks who live here, it's nothing really.

So it goes when you move from place to place...
You take notice of change...both internal and external - both processes a little uncomfortable, but familiar.

Thankful for a sweet place to come home to and rest my head and sip a little tea that makes my tongue pop off the roof of my mouth...

Thankful for those little hands and the newest character of our family...Buddy Fish.

stages. [of prose]

2010-04-13T11:24:00.001-07:00

Poetry intimidates me.
I don't feel like I'm old enough to really appreciate it.
Like..maybe it requires a lot of life experience, kids or some epic Tolstoy journey.
Mostly, I'm wrong and feel intimidated by things I don't understand all that well.

I was at a poetry reading last week for my sis-by-marriage, Leah.
[who is, an amazing writer.]
I call her Leah "The Pit-Stop Poet" Rupp.
For her love for pit-stop munchies and few other little inside bits I won't mention just yet.

I sat with a steaming cup of tea and listened to folks my age tear deep down into the human condition of family history and life experience. Also, we got to hear a few little stories in verse from Bill Jolliff, one of GFU's English professors who, might I add, has one amazing beard.
"..when you play music with people...communion happens." Among many other profound and silly stories.

There was a guy there...who read this poem he had written out of an experience he had recently. He was driving along the stages of the cross [not sure where this was] and at the crucifixion, they put the car in reverse to leave - giving them this experience all over again...but backwards.
He spoke about Jesus getting off the cross and putting his clothes on...having a gentle conversation with Pontius Pilate and a joyful dinner with his disciples...

Then, he said something that really hit me, "And it all ended with Mary having an abortion.."
And in the small, intimate crowd were fellow students and loved ones...as many "hmms.." and "wows.." gave way into a thoughtful clap.

I, on the other hand, was pretty disturbed and pushed to do a great amount of introspection on what that really meant, as poetry tends to take me a while to fully process. I'm working on it.
The poem was absolutely brilliant and haunting.
An odd experience, it must have been...and to experience the stages of the cross in the opposite way...ending in Mary not even giving birth to Jesus, but as an abortion - Jesus' death not only violent on the cross, but in the womb. How heartbreaking...how excruciatingly heartbreaking.

And growing up, I always remember sunday school teachers making a point of Jesus not getting off the cross...after all the mocking, torture and dehydration...and always saying.."He did that for you..."

I reckon' as a kid, you can understand something like that. You know Jesus died on a cross for your sins...but with obvious etiquette of teaching children, you leave out that suffering. You leave out the term, "Death Penalty" unless referring to some criminal on TV.
But yes...Jesus was a product of the death penalty.

To imagine this story in reverse completely removes the foundations of what I believe...the compassion, suffering and redemption of love.
But...we know this isn't how it happened....and I think, that is what's important, or at least monumental in the way I think about Jesus and Mary. A tiny intimate family revolutionizing the way we see humanity and suffering.

I'm still a little intimidated by poetry.
And I don't feel like I deserve to be read to,
but it's free...and it's real and at it's best...
terrifyingly beautiful.

[the] joy and suffering of knowledge.

2010-04-01T11:31:00.001-07:00

My mom-by-marriage says, "to love is to suffer.."
And I agree. Wholeheartedly.

I would even take that a step forward and say that [some] knowledge brings that same suffering. At least, the knowledge of evil. Of suffering and of hell on earth.

I put up that facade where everything seems fine, even when I pass by the men and women on the streets - begging for a few dollars...a job...some dignity. Making up stories that often capture my heart...
Funny thing is, I make up stories too like.."Man...that's all I have..."
But it's not and I try confirming to myself, "Well, I have to eat too..." and feel terrible. This is a constant heaviness.

This isn't about that same conversation though; the "What do I do with homeless folks on the street?" That is for your own judgment and conviction.

What I'm talking about is knowledge.
The first time we understand what is good and what is bad.
That, then, transforms into what is right and what is wrong. Next, enters conscious...then morality and possibly followed by religion. (Especially, if your religion IS your morality.)

I say this as the result of many hard and exhausting conversations. What we learn in class, or documentaries or from our friends who live in poverty. We are pulled into their stories of suffering.
As I drive down the streets lined with homes full of people and stories, I realize that they're not all good. Many have seen great pain and have been a part of some great suffering. This sadness, is overwhelming to my heart.

I learn more and more about the injustices done to women - torturing them with hot steel and acts upon acts of sexual abuse.
I stare blankly at a wall and realize how heavy and sad it is...to have this knowledge.

It is different [and both equally important] to learn about the human condition and social actions than from math equations and the history of the cotton gin. But we choose what we want to learn, and that comes with a great price.
I wish to refrain from the overly quoted, "Ignorance is Bliss" - but when we chose to ignore, we walk away with a much less weighted conscious. I am guilty of this over and over again.

But, it's not worth it.
Sometimes, knowledge is justice.

To know their stories...to know their suffering is liberation. It is having the cobwebs brushed away from our eyes.
Afterwards, those new eyes fill with tears at the loss of innocence. In ways, for them and ourselves.
Now, we move. We move into their stories and put ourselves in their place and speak up for them. We advocate.
We cry ourselves into their unimaginable pain.

Most of us will never know what it's like to be a slave or to have someone control the joys and sufferings of your life...
This...is one of those, "If you ever met God, what would you ask?" sort of situations. Why they suffer and we don't.

And I think...this is where God would point to Jesus and say, "Because he lived the same story..."
Sometimes, I forget that what the word "compassion" entails. That of suffering with others and to suffer for others.

I sit and think about Jesus. And the many ways we say his name and worship.
Jesus' story ended in suffering [by death penalty] but it also brought about eternal reconciliation.

And whether or not you believe in the person named Jesus or if God exists - this story is important.
It's the story that brings us deeper into the understanding that suffering is inescapable as a part of the Broken Body.

Joy and Suffering - coming from the same cup. The deeper we learn and experience suffering - the deeper we learn of Joy and all the love that stems from the word.

As I remember this phrase, "to love is to suffer", I realize that suffering is a part of the human condition -- as is love, and when we love, God brings us in closer and holds us a little bit tighter...

and it is here that you'll find...
Joy.

Momma

2010-03-26T22:08:00.000-07:00

And so it goes, as we share our stories and remember how our characters have formed, there is this woman that I can never leave out.
She is, without a doubt, the woman who knows my heart in no other way.

My sweet Momma.

Sometimes, I think of the things in life that could have easily led me down far worse roads than others have accused me of...
In those moments of conviction, character and conduct, my Momma was high on my conscious. She never had to spank me much because her words were always heavy on me -- especially when I did wrong and so deservingly had them enter my conscious.

When I read the eerie statistics of boys who grow up [at some point] without fathers, it is haunting to know how many end up in prison and/or with really jacked up views on how to be a husband or in general, a man.
Sometimes, when thinking about some messed up times in life, I respond to folks, "Yeah...but I had a real good Momma".
There's no doubt the person I am today came from living with a household of women during my formative years.

My Mom, is a resting place. Safety and comfort so sweetly pours out of her heart and through her always familiar Southern words. She is so many things...precious, kind, hard working, empathic and a word I can't emphasize enough....strong.

She...is strong. A gentle force of nature that quite literally breaks down every fear and pillar of sadness we share together. I've always said, "If my momma starts to cry, I'm gonna start cryin'..'" - and that's just how it works.
While I was standing in front of Hannah at our wedding, listening to our pastors read our story, I started to feel the knot in my throat and the outlines of my eyes fill with water. Looking at my Mom, I saw her dabbing her eyes with a tissue and nearly lost it.

I knew, without a doubt...she was proud of me. She knew I was happy and for a momma, that's all they want. They want their children safe and happy.
And granted, I have given my Mom her fair share of scares, disappointments, worries -- One thing I've always known true in my heart, is how much she loves me. How she stops what she's doing and answers the phone, even when she's at work.

And that love has kept me steady.
I have her father's soft heart and big toes -- her mother's spirit to see and understand the world and to counsel heavy hearts...
a product of August love...

I have my Mom's gift of hospitality - to cook well for folks who come over and make sure it's done in love and not necessity. Something of Joy and not disdain.

My mom has seen a lot of life...and a lot of life end in front of her eyes.
She has held the hands of the dying as they enter into the Great Mystery.
I know somewhere...she hurts at this sadness that an ending life brings.
My mom gets to see into Heaven sometimes, and brings it down to earth. I hear her stories and death slowly loses its sting.

Just today, I got a package in the mail with some Easter goodies. My favorite, Reese's easter eggs!
(Oh, and a jar of Blue Plate Mayonnaise! My favorite!) A woman who knows my heart too well. She always knows what I miss and especially, when I miss it.

You see, my Mom is a heart - and she beats for others.
I am spiritually and emotionally bonded to this heart;
its rhythm finds a home in my soul.

When all I can afford are words, I'm thankful I can give them to my Momma.
I'm not a great writer, but she'll say I am - and that's really all that matters.

To you, my sweet Momma.

I love you and think of you

and as always,
thankyou for the life you've given and spoken into me..

..and also,

that shining jar of Blue Plate Mayo.
:)

2010-03-18T16:01:00.000-07:00

dandelions. [a garden of my own]

2010-03-17T20:07:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I have a thing about dandelions.
I don't exactly remember them in their yellow flower form, but I do remember growing up and blowing the whimsical "parachute ball" (as they call it) all over the place.

I didn't know this caused more dandelions to grow. I'm sure my parents really enjoyed that. Oh, the fun and intimidating process of flower reproduction. [Helped along by many children and dreamers alike.]

It's not as much me who has a thing for dandelions than it is my wife, Hannah. She loves them and therefore brought me into loving them. I didn't have a reason to not like them. I guess I've never had a garden of my own before.

Hannah wrote me a story a couple of years ago called, "Brown and Green" in which my super talented buddy, Kyle Hilton illustrated for us as a surprise gift to Hannah for her birthday. We worked so much on it [Well, Kyle deserves mostly all credit!] and it has been one of the most beautiful books I've ever read. It sits there, on our shelf along with other children's books about shapes, justice, plants, love, St. Francis and the like.

The story talks about a girl who leaves the comforts of home and all things familiar to be with the unloved ones of the world.
I was so drawn into Hannah's metaphor - that of the dandelions being the unloved - the discarded - the weeds of society.

Her story takes her to Africa, where she grew up with her family. It follows her back to Oregon and into India where she finds a Sparrow singing songs of hope and sad little durges. [And this part of the story can maybe be saved for another day.]

When we think of dandelions, we think of weeds. We think, "Gotta get those outta there before they take out my whole garden!"

As we watch these plants, society deems "weeds", we step on them and throw them onto the margins where they eventually become part of the Earth again and part of that Great Mystery.

So it's no wonder, when I see dandelions, my heart becomes soft. I think about our friends who society deems unfit to grow among others.

A few days ago, I noticed a big clump of yellow dandelions growing along our sidewalk. They weren't growing anywhere else, but our sidewalk.
I'd like to think they felt safe.
They felt loved and appreciated as a part of this ebb and flow of creation.

And when society pulls out their roots and places them among the discarded, we will find them and slowly plant their roots into the warm soil where they belong..

...in a garden the way it should be.
...in a garden for dandelions.

"Brown and green and all the colors
we are lifted and raised.
Like bread.
Like the backs of the dying.
All of us are grown to God's self.
...especially the dandelions."
-HHC

[The book is available to download for free online, if you'd like to check it out. Just go here: http://tinyurl.com/ydjjl9p ]

good stories.

2010-03-11T12:22:00.001-08:00

I thought to myself, “We’re all different now…”

Some of us have babies.
Some of us will…soon.

Some of us have mustaches now.

Well, when I come to think of it, we were all different then…too.
But we wouldn’t say it. We all generally liked the same things – listened to the same music and played the same video game till 4am, then slept till noon and did the same thing all over again.

I loved it. I loved the normalcy and waking up in the middle of the night to see the DVD menu playing over and over again loud as hell. Of course, no one wanted to turn it off so you hope you’ll just fall back asleep. But I never did.

Tip-toeing over sleeping heads I pressed the glowing power symbol and all went dark. Here came the slow and slightly muffled sounds of snoring and smacking. A sea of adolescence and long hair. My best friends.

When I stop to look around now, our lives have shifted. Some of us have moved away to follow other mysteries and opportunities and some of us do the same, just a little closer to home. I find myself these days, asking which is more mysterious or beneficial and confiding that we’re all where we need to be. Nothing more. Nothing less.

People come in and out of our lives and leave their mark. Some hurt. Some take more than they give. Some are funny and some…you spend the rest of your life with.

They’re like good stories. Some you keep on your shelves and glance at every now and then…remembering where you were when you read it and how it made you feel. Some, you still read over and over again because it’s just so damn good.
And some, you still haven’t finished. There…they’ll sit and maybe one day, you’ll read it when you need to read it.

I like to think about how God moves us into places - places that are far away and scary for a while – Places like dive bars, cafes, academia and Hollywood. You always remember where you came from.

And…well…we always have that.
Our stories.
Like books on a shelf.
Reminding us of beauty;

and all those cans of Mountain Dew.

An Open Discussion: Our Relationship with the Poor

2010-03-03T19:20:00.001-08:00

Hannah and I were sitting over coffee talking about things, when this topic came up. I had written something about how the poor and disabled lead us to the heart of God, more than any other thing, in my past experience that is.

And granted, I live in a city where homelessness is visible on most street corners holding cardboard signs that read, "Pennies help!" and "Will take verbal abuse for change" - which honestly, breaks my heart. I know this man is hoping his humor will win him a few bucks every now and then.
I feel this way I often speak on the poor is hurting what we truly need out of our relationships with one another. I know that Jesus fed the multitudes, but they were hungry again the next day - the crippled were able to walk - the lepers were cleansed - but were they offered employment? A roof? Food? I seem to ask these questions these days in hopes that maybe they're important.

But as I see the beauty in our relationships with our friends who are poor, I have this nagging suspicion that I'm missing something deeper - the urge to bring them out of poverty.

So I ask the question to myself, "Am I romanticizing poverty?"
Isn't my goal to alleviate their suffering? Or when the Bible says that the poor will always be among us, is that a statement to encourage others to bring change or to simply moderate its existence?

My conclusion seems to come to...well yes, of course. They obviously deserve a more comfortable life...with a roof over their heads, food in their bellies and a job that provides dignity. Our jobs are to alleviate poverty and to give others a better life, not just learn from them and benefit from their poverty.

Again, these are my thoughts and I'm asking those who I've tagged here, for a little clarity as many of you may be further along in this journey and thought process -
How are we to care about the poor without romanticizing their poverty to our benefit and the Broken Body of Christ -and the poor in spirit? Or is it, okay? Is their a better way to go about this conversation?

I ask in humility, because it's not worth it for me anymore to care about our friends who are poor if I don't do anything about what they actually need, which is love, employment, a place to live and for them to somehow be fed daily with both food and our words of encouragement and dignity.
But, with the deep, structural and societal issues that keep our friends in poverty, are our efforts sustainable?

I have hopes to opening this as a discussion. To learn and to act. I believe these conversations...and questions are important. As I contemplate on the heart of God, may I not forget the Beloved, that which this is all about.

Ignorance is Bliss

2010-02-28T15:32:00.001-08:00

I came across an article the other day that read mostly about atheists and liberals having a higher I.Q.
I thought it was interesting - and have been thinking why this might be, or why it's even important.

For one, it's not important to me.

I don't think having a higher I.Q. makes you a better person than the next and the same goes for having a...not so good I.Q.
My hang ups about where I live involve the constant effort to stay on top - to know about what's going on in the world, and how we might be able to talk 4-5 hours on it without actually coming to a good conclusion, or one that digs us deeper into a trench of frustration.
I get tired of it. There is surely a lack of humility and humbleness, for the most part.

But going back to the IQ thing, and how it doesn't matter to me.

I am constantly reminded on the way I see God and am lead to God. I understand that God and religion do not make much sense to a lot of folks beyond the aspects of faith and perhaps the promise of an afterlife, and more influentially, a place most call Heaven.
Like Tolstoy who saw God in the lives of his servants, a simple faith...and a faith of the poor. A faith of the disabled. The least of these and the ones with the hearts of children and innocence.

When you see a woman standing in the ruins of her Haitian home and she says, "God is good..." I am reminded of Job and how he was picking at his scabs with broken pots --
God is good? But my home is destroyed and I am again, left in poverty though I'd never had much to begin with -- this hope, in the eyes of the broken and the poor in spirit, is where my God is.

As poet Mary Oliver so elegantly writes,

"God, once he is in your heart,
is everywhere..."

And to explain this to that demographic of higher intellectuals, "liberals" and atheists, is somewhat difficult. The poor are not ignorant neither are the developmentally disabled - for they are the ones that truly lead us into the heart of God.

I understand your intellect is important to you and this understanding of philosophy that a god does not exist makes life easier in some way or the other.

I can come to understand what you mean, and why it doesn't matter to you -- because it seems as though you have figured it all out and thoroughly proven that it is the less intelligent that are led blindly by something they can't see or can't prove.
It's true. You have us there.

I know you can have a good morality and so can I. I can be a free thinker too - perhaps our differences aren't so different after all.

Your IQ is not important to me...but you are...and your heart. What you do is not important to me...but I care about how you..how you treat yourself and your community.

But this is nothing new and I'm just rambling because I'm offended when anyone takes a jab at humanity. When you (majority media) state that liberals and atheists are of higher intellect, you are stating that "conservatives" and persons of faith have less intellect, and it just seems a little off and you're making me feel dumb...and...many of my friends and family look dumb..and they're not. I'm by no means conservative, nor does that mean it's a bad thing, nor am I a super liberal and I'm not saying it's a bad thing either.

These tags are dangerous and we always have to categorize people into some line or the other so we can handle them. Humanity cannot be classified. We are all made of the same thing, yet we weave in and out of places with the idea that we would've never had anything in common.

We will not progress until we integrate our hearts and imaginations; it's segregation that is ignorant and damaging.

Hmm.
Then again, ignorance is bliss.

Messenger

2010-02-23T12:10:00.000-08:00

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

-Mary Oliver

2010-02-22T15:51:00.001-08:00

don't write a bad romance.

2010-02-16T10:53:00.001-08:00

I turned the radio down to get rid of some of that noise.

I don’t know, I think it was that terrible song by Akon that talks about saying how a girl is fine, without being disrespectful [which the song itself contradicts its meaning]. Or that, “Tik-Tok” song that’s so bad, I find myself looking at her music on iTunes to find a song just as ridiculous. But it’s just noise. And it’s bad noise – nothing deep or true about any of it. In fact, I think it’s damaging. Of course I have the ability to turn the station, but I’m unfortunately intrigued by what pop culture finds to be good.

This noise tells us a lot. [and at the risk of seeming ridiculous, allow me to think upon these things.]

We were discussing some of the songs we hear on the radio like Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” or even Beyonce’s “Beautiful Nightmare”. Maybe I’m not listening to them fully. But I do take them for what they’re worth.
For one thing, there’s nothing beautiful about a nightmare – especially when it’s a relationship with another person. And Lady Gaga’s urge for a bad romance… what does this say about culture?

I feel like a lot of this stuff promotes violent relationships, and I think we’re seeing the rise of its popularity among their targeted audience.

I look at the Twilight Series [Get back! Get back, you! ] And for my birthday, we went and saw New Moon. It’s purely ridiculous fiction if not some form of softcore emotional fantasy. Maybe that’s why it’s so good. It is entertaining…I’ll say.

The relationships in these stories are violent…hurtful…and I feel could show a young audience what they need to have a passionate relationship. I mean…both guys are literally seconds away from killing her the entire time. Her identity is intertwined in the struggle for her own lust. Her identity is in a vampire who’s so obsessed, he fights daily not to kill her. [Meaning, her identity should be her own, not that of Edward or Jacob or whatever creature she falls in love with…]
I don’t know. I could delete all of this and say I’m looking into it way more than I should. And maybe I am. I think it’s important to see these things.

Don’t romanticize a bad romance. Just because it’s popular on TV and on the radio, it’s not healthy [and we should know this by now]. Your relationships shouldn’t be damaging. I try to imagine this scenario that Beyonce paints as she sings, “You can be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare… Either way, I don’t want to wake up…”

I just kind of laugh. Beyonce can sing and I do love what she does, but dang, that just seems scary. I don’t want to be stuck in a nightmare of a relationship – even if it is…somehow…beautiful?

I hope that we don’t romanticize bad relationships. This is really all I’m trying to say. It can be painted as passion or love – but it can turn into such a hidden wound.

There is a hope that we don’t take this stuff seriously, in which everything I said could be turned into a balled up piece of paper and thrown into the trash can. But what I do know, is that America knows what sells: sex, violence and…more sex.

What are we listening to? Reading? Watching? Will our hearts come out of it healthy…or in a better place? Or can we safely distance ourselves from poorly written songs…this…I hope.

I’ll leave with the words of Lady Gaga:

“Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance
Rah rah ah-ah-ah!
Ro mah ro-mah-mah
Gaga Ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance!”

the place of sacred things.

2010-02-09T23:25:00.000-08:00

There is a place for sacred things.
Tangibly, they are on our dressers, chests and shelves.
Sometimes, they're surrounded by the ash of incense or a picture or nothing at all.
But they are sacred and they are held in your heart.

Every so often, I glance down at my wrists to find the two post-India tattoos inspired by a somewhat, transformation of simplicity, poverty and injustice.
There is a sun and a moon. Tattooed by some guy from Mississippi whose own tattoos were less than..."Evangelical"
I didn't care. They were simple designs - somewhat childlike and squiggly and lovely. He didn't ask what they meant and I was sort of thankful because sometimes it's hard.

I'll say, "Yeah, I really like this band mewithoutYou..." But that's just a little of my journey into this world of seeing God in everything.
St. Francis and his canticle of Brother Sun and Sister Moon sent me spiraling into a hippy-esque world of trees, birds and nature. Of things all-connected and beautiful.
We have a few books on St. Francis on our wobbly book shelves - some are children's books and some speak of his life as we know it.

I have a little wooden replica of St. Francis [from Hannah] on my little shelf where I tend to put my little keepsakes. [they maybe aren't so sacred, but silly and awfully comforting...like an empty bottle of Rogue HBR and Abita Amber...] He stands there with two birds on either side of his tonsured cut head and has a peaceful gaze carved into the deep, dark wood.

I find peace in these sacred things. Not that Jesus touched them, but that my soul connects with this Spirit in a deeply moving way. As I come to live life in such a fast paced mindset, I have to slow down my urge to move faster and with better efficiency. Sometimes the world of profit overflows into my life of spirituality.

Most cultures have what they consider to be sacred. Of course, when culture is not understood by foreigners, it gets ruined in translation.

In India, as I was waiting for a bus, I sat and leaned against a tree. I hadn't noticed that this banyan tree was marked as sacred [as most banyan trees are in West Bengal] and noticed a few Bengali men waving me off with their hands. I immediately pushed off the tree with a misunderstood nod and me, wondering what I did wrong. I felt terrible for offending their sacred place.
There the respect - whether or not I believe a tree is sacred, it was sacred to this community and how dare I not show respect.
I think this gets a lot of Americans in trouble...this lack of understanding of the sacred in older cultures. [I'm only knocking on Americans because I am one...and I have been offensive.]

There was that term the brothers at Kalighat would say with folded hands, "Namaste" - honoring the Spirit that lives inside of you. No doubt many volunteers were atheist, buddhist, hindu, muslim, protestant, catholic, etc - All were greeted with Namaste and all left changed. All perspectives had shifted.

So I talk of this place, for sacred things. Inside our hearts...drawn on our bodies or standing beside a candle of Our Lady of Guadeloupe - they bring us to that place where we learned our lives wouldn't be the same.

In the place of sacred things, I see You,

with mud on your fingertips,

dirty feet and a hungry belly...

and a hole in your side.

2010-01-28T21:12:00.001-08:00

a lesson in humanity, toys and motor oil

I was in Fred Meyer a few weeks ago buying some oil for the car. In order to get to the "Miscellaneous Car Accessories" section of Freddie's, you have to pass by the toys and very large amount of tacky post-seasonal merchandise.

I came across a little boy screaming and crying because he wanted this truck...I mean...he wanted this truck so badly. His dad, who had his daughter in the shopping cart was saying in his firm grocery store voice, "Son, let's go...now"

"But I wwwaaant it!"
"Son...let's go...we're not going to get a truck today..."

As the little guy sobbed and wiped his eyes, he eventually gave up - shrugged his shoulders and pooched his lips that painted a picture of an overwhelming pity that nearly ripped my own heart out.

I'm not a fan of a child screaming over a toy - I usually assume they're spoiled or something, but I fully understand that kids are supposed to like toys.
When I have kids someday, they'll sit and pout and scream in the toy aisle because we're not going to buy a toy...at least not on that day.

After I found the oil I needed, which always makes me nervous - somehow I assume if you buy a thicker oil, it'll be like putting whole milk in your engine instead of...1% or something. I don't know. I think in weird terms like that. Luckily, my car isn't lactose intolerant.

Needless to say, I continued on my journey into the "food'esque" section of the supermarket.

As I was walking, I spotted the man and his son in between one of the not so busy aisles [most likely where the curtains and rods are to be found..]
There he was, bent down on his knees with his left arm over his son's shoulder, explaining why he wasn't getting a toy today. That someday, they'd come back and get one...but it wouldn't be this day...

I said to myself..."Good daddy.." Not sure why I said Daddy...maybe because I reverted to a child's understanding of his father - A more, gentle term for a father - but this wasn't my father and I was just walking to find my wife's favorite face moisturizer cream.

But it meant a lot to me -- to see this dad crouching down to his sons level - placing his hands on him and explaining why they didn't get a toy.
It was so simple but resonated within me so much meaning and a much needed lesson in humanity.

There's this joke by Kat Williams [who is pretty bad, but at the same time, pretty funny - so the story goes..] He's talking about a woman in the checkout line beatin' her kid because he touched a bag of skittles, in which Kat jokes, "Don't you beat your child! He's 3 years old! He's supposed to like skittles!"

Such a funny bit, but also, so true. We get upset when kids get loud. When a baby cries on an airplane, we think, "Oh Dear God" - but bless that mother or father's heart. You think they want their child screaming and wondering why they can't move within their specified 2 foot radius? They're kids...It just makes sense. I do also understand, where discipline lies in the midst of tantrums - but this wasn't the case.

But there's this lesson I learned...and also what I saw was hopeful...
I put myself in the father's position.
I put myself in the son's position...
and both were equally justified,
and I'm so thankful that the father didn't ignore his sons cries, but diagnosed it with words of affirmation.

And I'm sure, in the mind of parents, "Oh, just you wait Josh...it's never that easy" - I don't know. You could be right - but I know how it is, to be dismissed by a father, or to not understand the reasoning behind a "No", maybe as a kid, I wouldn't have understood, but I think we underestimate kids. Maybe...just maybe.

As I stood in the pharmaceutical aisle with my phone jammed between my shoulder and ear, asking Hannah where this little green bottle would be, I was well aware that I was learning.

What a gorgeous and heartbreaking humanity.
I'm so thankful to be a part of it - especially when we don't get what we want.

2010-01-20T20:08:00.001-08:00

what matters.

I want to know what matters to you,
because sometimes,
the world seems like such a dark place.

Replace the word "seems" with "is",
and you'll see what I'm really thinking.

I find myself at times, when the sky turns darker,
reading stories and watching videos of disasters,
screaming and gnashing of teeth. Hell.On.Earth.

Being executed for some crime,
or for just being...different.

I wonder what happens when we take our final breath;
fuzzy memories collide with brain cells shooting off electricity.

I find myself being afraid of death once every so often.
I don't dwell on it, but at times, there is nothing but
contemplation on that fact that all life ends sometime.
Borrowed energy that we must give back.

We see footage of a gunshot wound; a collapsed body.
We feel its suffering in our bones and we weep.

But...I move on. I get consumed with life
and start....living.

I kiss my wife and say, "Goodnight, see you in the morning.."
And my eyes tear up, as this precious human being
has grown into my heart like roots taking hold of loose soil.
[though, sometimes the soil is hard.]

What precious life, in this world.
I am driven by a Spirit. I say the name, "God",
and supposedly, the demons tremble.
But...we don't tremble anymore.

Well, I've seen people shake on the ground,
and that's not for me to judge,
but my Love for God has my chest heavy;

Sensitive heart that shakes with violent words.
Reactions stemmed from making a point...
proving to be right...

There is such pain in the world, how dare
you complain about something so mundane...
and this resonates within my soul, an unrest...

I walk past a synagogue and breathe deep. This
place feels Holy - I still feel Holy on this sacred ground.
There is a Spirit guided breath that is
quite intoxicating --
How I know it is, because when I sing from my heart,
it moves -- I feel it move and beat fast. It itches.

What on Earth is this feeling?
A fast heart beat of something so mysterious -
so pure and full of beauty, I place my hand against
my chest just to make sure it's still under my skin.

But beauty comes and goes with ugly visions of war
and hate and destruction.
It consumes this place where my heart feels alive.

I see women and children...burned alive. I see men
being shot for a crime that is absent of forgiveness.

I heard you this morning, whistling at a woman - what a sick, sick person
you are. How dare you turn that Child of God into a
symbol of disgusting fantasy?

How I want to apologize...to say I'm sorry. For whatever
its worth.

For your absent father or distant mother...we sway
in sorrow for your loss.

what matters to me is that I'm breathing
and aching and I can feel my heart.
I don't always know what it says,
but I am here on this earth.

I was born without the knowledge that being
born existed,
if only I could escape the knowledge of death,
but oh, what a Mystery - to live! to be known!
to love! to forgive! to sing!
To become this final act of Love and to be fully
reconciled to that Great Mystery.

Grace and Forgiveness floods into my heart,
as I wonder...

what matters....to you?

2010-01-18T15:25:00.000-08:00

Peace, Sustainability & Reconciliation

I’ve had the opportunity to witness two different John Perkins speak.
Both authors..activists and speakers with organizations designed to make this world a better, more peaceful place.

There is the John Perkins of Mendenhall, Mississippi. This Perkins is one of the major contributing and founding fathers for centers of reconciliation all across the US.
Of course, his story brings about a sadness that is in itself, reconciled to a good God and a hopeful humanity – a God of justice, love and grace.

The Perkins of the South speaks on the “Three R’s”: Relocation, Redistribution and Reconciliation. They represent some of the most important areas of cultural and racial understanding. These ideas allow us to heal among our broken pasts of slavery, war and harsh injustice.

Perkins has such an amazing and gentle soul. [Not to mention, he preaches/speaks with a fire and tongue I’ve never witnessed – such passion and clarity.] When I heard him speak at Southern, there was a young 20-something guy that was asking a question on his struggle to find community and if there was any advice Mr. Perkins had for him…

Perkins looked at the guy and said, “First off, let me tell you…that you have such a beautiful heart and we are thankful for it…”

I loved this. It was simple and profound and no doubt meaningful for the guy who was expecting a clear answer – but Mr. Perkins made it intimate and changed the way we viewed the question. It was all of a sudden…personal and we were all pulled into the journey to seek a reconciled community.

* * * * *

The other John Perkins was an Economic Hitman. Basically, he traveled through a U.S. based firm to “strategically” important cities to convince the political and financial leadership of such countries to accept huge developmental loans from institutions like the World Bank, and other sister programs. Once these countries are loaded down with huge amounts of debt, they are basically at the mercy of the U.S. and are forced to concede to any amount of things – land, resources, etc.

I was able to hear him speak at Powell’s this past Friday. I had never read anything of his, nor have I heard him speak. According to most, it was the usual and nothing new or revolutionary, but it was important for me to hear.

I’m not a fan of huge profit – but I live in a country that is. Big corporations are all about cutting as much overhead as possible to maximize profit with major effects of lost quality, relationships and experience.

Perkins spoke loudly that it’s okay to make money – it’s okay – but not at the price we’re paying now. Basically, it’s not about making the most money, but providing a peaceful and more sustainable economy. It was brilliant! A huge resounding, “Yes!” lit off in my brain. It’s nothing new, but it was so good to hear, especially in the midst of so many businesses that try to make profit off everything, leaving its customers and employees feeling used and underappreciated.

What Perkins did for a living was to drive poorer countries into a debt that would never be paid off. It’s still being done today, but he offered us a hopeful look into places like South America, that are standing up to these U.S. businessmen that want to capitalize off their poverty.

Perkins encourages a better world – we, as consumers have the power to change how this country works…how we buy food and treat employees.

We have the power to boycott Wal-Mart and Nike and McDonalds…The president and congressman will continue taking bribes, but we ultimately control this economy. Most revolutions succeed not by a popular government official or President – but by its citizens who take a stand and proclaim, “No, we aren’t going to buy your products because we know you are reducing our brothers and sisters into slaves.”

So I say in hope, that we are careful for what we buy and that we respect who makes such products that keep us alive and warm and fed.

“For Grant,” Perkins would say, referring to his Grandson. “…We need to make this world better for Grant.”

Both Perkins’ have inspired me to promote a world that needs reconciling and can also, at the same time, be sustainable and peaceful. The world cannot afford to live as we live here in the US. It was take five earths for us to do that.

We have to change something. For our kids…and their kids. We have to work for peace and practice sustainability.

We have to imagine that another world is possible because…
She is groaning…

and we can hear Her.

2010-01-16T10:11:00.001-08:00

a letter to haiti

we see that you are suffering and our hearts are breaking.
I watched a video this morning of one your daughters, trapped underneath the rubble.
She was 11 years old and moaning as her tiny body was damaged - and though she was able to get out, she cried as her last words, "Momma, don't let me die..."

And so I sat there and saw in this girl's eyes a hope to live; undeserving of this pain. they were all undeserving of this pain - regardless of what Pat Robertson said [and with pity we apologize for some who have turned it into a good/evil discussion and finding any moral reason for this disaster is absolutely irreverent].

The journalist spoke that she had died from internal wounds in the hospital with her family.
A shortness of breath came upon me and I buried my head into my hands. I prayed for some sort of dignity...that she was at least able to be with her father and other family members. But sometimes I get sick of that -- of trying to glorify it with terms that I've yet to know fully its depth.

She was in pain and she was scared. It's not beautiful - it's haunting. The reporter broke into tears as though all joy gets sucked out of your body and the room feels like the oxygen is escaping. Things grow dark and somber as we are left feeling hopeless and abandoned.

To feel almost ridiculous for writing about it...especially...sitting in this comfortable space.
But I can't find the energy to hold any of this in - with as much sadness as these words carry. Dear God - I can't hold that in.

I listened to an author speak last night at Powell's in which the aftermath of this catastrophe was first on his mind.
It's interesting to see this universal sense of prayer, as he asked for a moment of silence and for us to send good energy to Haiti - and so I sat and knew people were praying - though the term was "sending good energy and thoughts", I believe God was hearing our cries...our thoughts...our prayers and "energy".

I'll be one to admit that prayer is something that has nearly ceased in my everyday life. And though I feel connected to the Spirit daily through the Beloved and Creation, I have truly missed out on the intimacy of quietness and prayer. So, these past few days I have been praying.
I pray to God using words like, "dignity" and "peace" hoping they'll translate into the hearts of the ones who need it most.
I pray for my wife; for peace in her heart and for her health.
I pray for my stepfather and his family and the violence that still haunts their dreams.

I pray that I may speak peace into violence and learn how to love others in ways that sustain and encourage and give hope.

Because sometimes, when I do this...things get a little less heavy.
I weep, but my tears dry and my breath returns and I get the courage to imagine things I don't feel like I'm qualified to even think about.

When I wept, I moaned in sadness. For her.
For your people. For the mass graves. For relief and for food, water and shelter.

For her...no more tears. no more sadness. no more pain. reunited with her mother. eternally reconciled. we pray for you.

...we pray.

[If you're feeling overwhelmed with organizations that are accepting donations, I understand. I'll be sending a relief donation through Word Made Flesh soon. I trust WMF will put this donation to the most grassroots organization on the ground in Haiti and who will help others in the most sustainable ways. Thankyou for this, WMF staff for the hopes that our donations will be used relationally and throughout this community proclaiming that God is good...even in the midst of suffering.]
You can donate through WMF by going here: http://www.wordmadeflesh.org/updates/the-justice-fund-haiti/

2010-01-11T19:24:00.000-08:00

Our "We" - Thoughts on Avatar, White "Messiah" Complexes and Spirituality -

**[There may be some spoilers about the movie, Avatar, if you haven't seen it yet. Just a warning. No one likes a spoiler! ha.]**

Lately, I've been thinking about "we".
When I say "we", I include community - who we belong to and more importantly, who we stand with and support.

I've been having a lot of weight on me lately - about things I've been writing on; namely, homosexuality. But, this is not about that and at the same time, I can't talk about "we" without including the people in my life who happen to also be a part of the GLBT community.

First off. Avatar. Wow. What an amazing movie portraying the acts of violence against nature, humanity and the terrible aftermath of consumerist imperialism. At least, that's what I got out of it.
It was a stunning movie that no doubt had so much work put into it.

Second of all, it's a bit racist. [though it's kind of hidden by special effects and action scenes]
I wouldn't immediately admit to it, because some would say that I'm just perpetuating racism, but hear my thoughts, and the conversation I've been having with others.
It's the same theory behind Pocahontas - the "white messiah" complex.

Granted, the main protagonist becomes one of the natives in the end - he is still a white man who is still....the hero. I wonder why he couldn't be a part of the solution with a bit of humbleness and humility, not THE solution. not THE hero. After all, he did bring the war to their home.

But, with that being said, he did become one of them and he did change his "we".
Previously, his "we" was part of the marine corps. A Jarhead; smart-ass with a big attitude and a sarcastic tongue. It's also what makes his transition so powerful.

He changes his "we" as he becomes more involved in their way of life. He understands their connection to their world and to the Spirit that guides them. He is transformed.
When your "we" changes to include the ones you once hated, you come into a monumental shift -but it also turns your old "we" against you.

There's this scene in "Remember the Titans", where the two original coaches (Yoast and his partner) of the Titans were sitting at a diner discussing how the times were changing and they needed to change with it. Yoast exclaimed how he trusts Coach Boone with the team and with his daughter in which his partner muttered angrily under his breath, "You go to hell!"

Yoast was confused as to what happened. His long time friend and assistant coach abandoned him in the midst of a perfect season. Why?
Because Yoast's "we" had changed.
Hannah looked at me and said, "See, he changed his 'we'.. "
[Yeah - she's way more aware of those things than I am...]

He could no longer advocate an all-white team or the affects of the hatred that is racism. As he changed his views on the ones society told him to hate, his world changed. Of course, his old "we" abandoned him, cursed him and took away what he had worked so hard to achieve, because he could not watch his new "we" suffer at the hands of racist politics.

So, beyond the overlying themes of Avatar - our consumption is destroying culture and we'll stop at nothing to be safe from losing our comfortable lifestyles; even if that means destroying an entire civilization.
Reminiscent of Native American culture, as the Empire came to live here, we pushed everyone out to the fringes of America's new Empire- creating poverty and a loss of a beautiful culture with such a rich and important history of spirituality.

How beautiful it would be to experience such direct relations with nature, animals and other humans. It is possible...maybe..if we're quiet.
Maybe..if I put down this thing I'm typing on, it'll help.

I mourn the loss of such spirit driven life.
Of honoring the food we eat, to believing all of life is connected to one another.

Maybe we're more alien than we'd like to admit.
I believe the Creator knew what She was doing when the earth came into being.
We were supposed to take care of it. Not push people out.

May God have mercy on us and may God forgive us for consuming more than we require.

Here's to the new "we"...
...to the shift taking place inside our hearts.

2010-01-08T22:36:00.001-08:00

- My Letter to 2009 - [part 2]

Growing up, the idea of Oregon came through a 2-D computer game where I neglected my little brother who had dysentery to hunt for more food -- even if I couldn't carry it all the way back to my wagon.

Hey, priorities are priorities, am I right? Besides the fact, most people liked hunting more than anything else - though most those people are pacifists these days.

East Oregon looks a lot like, well, that. Those big rolling hills with sagebrush and that mighty beautiful sky. Far from 2-D.

As I said earlier, I have a crush on Portland – it’s enticing.
The smell of yeast cooking from the microbreweries as I walk to work – it reminds me of pumpkin pie and my uncle dipping his finger into a huge vat of cooking yeast at the Jack Daniels distillery back in the day.

But life happens. It’s beautiful and hard. It’s scary. I was far away from everyone I knew, but was welcomed into such a warm community whom I’m so thankful for.

We got married on a Saturday in April.
It had been rainy up until then, as it usually is in the PNW.
But this day...
this day was gorgeous.
My family rented an old house in North Portland for their stay. It was fun seeing them here. My sister, pregnant with baby Cooper, stood beside me as we held hands and became the Harrod-Casper’s in front of our dear beloved community.
We made a bowl out of clay that was too dry, but it was perfect.
A great metaphor, in my opinion. I’m all about metaphor.

I became the husband of my biggest inspiration. And what good times were had with family and friends.

Life goes on and I continue my job as a barista at the café – only to become promoted to a manager during some times of transition – an opportunity allowing Hannah to return to school and finish her degree in women’s studies, and giving me an opportunity to feel like I can make a difference in a place, even if it’s not mine to own.
I am incredibly grateful for the opportunity to serve others and to keep people from getting too upset with one another. :P

In the midst of the transitions, our family was met with the sadness of violence. We had lost my stepdad’s mother in an attempted robbery, and his father was left wounded, yet recovered and is still in the process.
We're all still recovering.

I was in Drain, OR when I found out and buried my head into Hannah.
That drive home was rough. I would talk about it…and cry…and dry up again. I would repeat this till we got home, where I lit a few candles on our back steps and sat out to watch the sky. I thought about the Great Mystery and how Mrs. Grace was a part of it now and how we’re all called back to the Creator.

I fought back and forth with the idea of a good God. I continually wrestle with this spirit of peace after seeing so much violence. We are living in a world that needs reconciliation more than ever – more than blaming each other about race and gender as a form of justice, we are called to live together in community, and in communion with the Spirit. This is what I’m learning.

My sister gave birth to a baby boy named Cooper, after my granddad, “Brother JC”. I see a lot of myself in baby Cooper, because well, I think he looks a lot like me. He’s also quiet and cries when he’s hungry and is already a gentle spirit – Yep, maybe just like me. Hah. :P

It was a year that many were glad to see go, and I don't blame them.
But this year for me has taught me much about life, adventure, sadness, love and forgiveness.
We face the trials of newlyweds, of young minds soaking up wisdom as it finds its way into our lives...
...Like celebrating life a lot. Even when there's really no reason to celebrate, still -- we celebrate.

So, here's to 2010 - hopefully losing a little (aka "a lot of") weight...catching up on books...writing a lot, love well and work hard.

This is life...
and it's so worth living.

Thankyou, 2009 for showing me all the vessels of humanity.

Sincerely,
Josh

2010-01-02T11:58:00.000-08:00

- My Letter to 2009 - [part one]

Shifting around ideas, dreams and experiences of the past year - I forget what it means to be thankful for a new year and also to remember and contemplate on the year that has just passed.

I stare off at a blank wall, deciding what comes first -- freedom from academia and a trip that would change my world.
I purchase a world map because I like maps. Okay, I love maps and I'm not sure why. I like to imagine what life is like way up there, above Canada or in the middle of the Great Oceans. I wonder who in Ireland is meeting their friends at the pub after work, or if they're going home to their wife and kids or maybe just their dog. I think about life on the Mediterranean or Mass taking place in the South of Spain.

But on this map, I see a journey. The place where the poor brought me closer to God and where I further became part of this Great Mystery with the Broken Body called the Beloved.
I see where I met my wife - who became a great friend and who held me when I had hurt the most. An admiration that lasted longer after my feet stepped off the plane. A common symbol to us both.

I was going to see this girl. I was going to marry this girl.

But that required me driving across the coldest parts of the US - albeit, the most beautiful.
Memphis, Kansas City, Omaha, Denver, cough*Salt Lake City*cough, and Boise.
I left the day Obama was sworn in as President.
It was a memorable day -- sad and exciting; bittersweet and melancholic.

As millions cheered for a new face to our country, I hugged my Mom goodbye; holding back as if weeping was the last thing I needed to do at that moment, and I believe the same went for her - though I know we both cried that day.

I left the deep South and headed for Oregon. The land of gorgeous and thick Fir trees with winding rivers that lead up to a magnificent mountain.

I saw beautiful hills and bare branches from that unforgiving cold wind. Water towers shaped like tea pots and local gas stations where I felt like a hippie - though I'm sure that wasn't it.
I saw lots of snow and frozen lakes and beautiful people. I hid all the money I had in a book Hannah made me, thinking it would be the last place someone looked if I were to get robbed.
I made friends with low hanging clouds and empty highways and the occasional couch surfing host, who I was so thankful to be welcomed into their homes. Each has such simple and lovely stories of life and hopes and ideas. It was nice to listen to people talk about life in terms that weren't about Grad School or consuming some other experience that would conflict them even further -- it was nice to sit and listen about what music they liked and where they came from.
After all, it's the people that make the journey.

I arrived in Portland with everything I had in my car. Clothes. Books. A guitar and a few snacks that had been warmed and thawed too many times. Hannah was with me on the last leg of my journey in which it hit me that this part of my trip was coming to an end and another part was about to begin.
Rounding the dark ridges of the Columbia River Gorge - I wept in sadness - for leaving home and being afraid of what was ahead of me: a new life in a place I'd never lived before and starting a family.
I needed these things to hit, because it didn't seem real until the landscape changed and my thoughts became flooding in like water over a buckling dam. I couldn't stop them -- but it was necessary. It was painful and beautiful and scary - and it was necessary.

I had the idea of being born again into a different life.
I'd still be the same quiet mumbling boy from the deep South, but I'd be shifting and I was okay with that. At least for the most part.

As we drove into Portland, I see the familiar bridges of past visits - "Made in Oregon" flashing its welcoming rhythm at the end of the Burnside Bridge - my second favorite bridge in Portland. [The first being St. Johns, of course.]

Welcome to the land of Stumptown coffee, wine grown from the country, microbreweries and excellent cuisine that screams words like...sustainable, cage free, local, gluten free, organic, naturally raised and direct traded goods.
Because in Portland, it works.

Because in Portland, it rains. A lot. But it's welcoming to a brotha who enjoys a good overcast day to read and write with a good cup of fresh coffee. Not only freshly brewed, but freshly roasted - because us coffee nerds know that it makes all the difference.

PDX,
You're home now and, well, I sort of have a crush on you.
Sincerely, one of your newest residents in 2009,
Josh

2009-12-22T12:27:00.001-08:00

peace and a lesson in biscuit making

I steady my thoughts as the word, "peace" saturates itself in my mind.
I figured Christmas to be a time of peaceful tidings and warm spicy drinks [and oh, it is!] , but as a friend brought to my attention this weekend, I'm living a bit contradictory to this season of "peace".

There are good reminders as we fall upon this season - when people are just a little bit happier than the rest of the year because the air is cooler and we see dear ones we love and enjoy eating honey baked ham with...(errr, how I hate ending a sentence with 'with' -- it just seems so abrupt, like what I'm saying is quickly falling off a cliff - ok ok, enough of that.)

But, this season has brought many lessons in peace and in well, biscuit making [and I have my Gran to thank for that.]

"Blessed are the peacemakers..." I run this through my thoughts - weaving it in and out of experiences and hopes like a needle through fabric. The world is not 'shalom' - peace and completeness. I think of the droughts in Kenya and the shivering soldiers in the Middle East and I think that peace and completeness are far off the agenda.
Of course, what am I doing to bring Shalom? What am I doing to bring peace, because it's not just a thought; it's an action - as my Rabbi calls me to be....a peacemaker.

Here's to the preparation of my heart. to bringing peace in my community and among my Beloved brothers and sisters.

Now, I said biscuit making because really, there's nothing better than homemade biscuits. Also - it's the conversation during these lessons. Learning and conversation sometimes transfer into metaphor, at least in my opinion, but I was reminded as we got onto the conversation of wine [and the parable of wine and wineskins.]
I thought on the idea of new wine in old wine skins and it got me thinking on life and the things I've learned in the past few years.

I'm not sure if this story had ever really impacted me on a deeper level than it has recently, realizing all the life that is happening lately. Lots of new ideas and difficult times; the deeper and at times, more conflicted spirituality - things that old wine skins wouldn't be able to hold.
These things expand as they settle in my bones and show me that life is delicate and rich and happening all around.

These new wineskins are fresh, but can handle the expansion of my heart -- Unfamiliar, but necessary for growth.

We take wisdom as it comes and we give thanks as it grows in certain seasons;

blessed are the peacemakers,

as flour and milk and water create the elements of bread,

we give thanks for the wisdom that comes from life,

and those necessary buttermilk biscuits...

2009-12-18T21:11:00.001-08:00

a native son.

Sometimes, I'm quieter here - but there's so much to say.
I remember the hidden wound.

There's that invisible line of social class - serving old white people as their hands raise in a dismissal that hurts when I imagine it done to me.
I try to wonder if I'm over-exaggerating this, but I see it so often upon what we have somehow deemed to be second-class citizens.

But, this goes for all colors and includes all ranks of social economics.
As I find myself in the service industry, I know this look all too well. This is what it comes down to, "You have nothing to offer me after this transaction."

I notice it when I hear white folks talk in there "black voice" - how it sounds ignorant..and mean. I don't quite understand why you have to explain a person as a "black man/woman" in a story.
I'm sure it happens the other way around in other communities, but a story is still a story regardless of color...right?
But when you say, "This black man came up..." It seems to change our perception of the story. We get more anxious - more nervous for what you're going to say. I wonder why we do this, and if it matters or if it confirms our deepest thoughts.

As a native of the great deep South, this still finds its way into my conscious.
There's no one person I point out, but do realize it happens more often than I witness.

Sure, when you "shoo" away a waitress because we're done, it may seem like a funny thing to do, but to her, it can seem oppressive and even more so, rude.
It makes me uncomfortable, and for the sake of the situation, I will only speak for myself.
I speak on these things, not because I have hopes that it'll change a person, but that the place my heart has shifted to sees these interactions as something that is hurtful, and that I want people to be aware of...
We have to change the way we think in these tiny ways, because it's the small things, that bring justice and peace to a conversation or interaction.

But oh, the South.
How it calls me home. Blue Plate mayo in the 'fridge - southern accents rising up from locally produced commercials make me chuckle in the best of ways. Things just seem brighter when you've been away for a while.
It's nice to be somewhere flat for a change. It's nice to find comfort in all the small things.

Fried catfish. FoodNetwork. Sleep. Crickets and frogs. Fat rain. Waffle House. Cracker Barrel. Biscuits and gravy. Twang. No expectations. Comfort. Sweet tea. Fried Turkey. Pecan pie. And family.

Some beautiful things...hugging my sweet momma and gran, spending some time with my sis and her beautiful babies...and just being here in the spirit of the holidays.

We have heavy hearts of a tough year - dear ones who have joined the Great Mystery and are fully reconciled to a good God, through all the violence and hate of such a broken humanity.

We give thanks for new life and freedom from oppression.
We simply, give thanks.
For offering ourselves to a broken world and mending our hidden wounds..

..with peace.

Welcome home, native son.

2009-12-13T22:31:00.001-08:00

a letter to december.

To December [or whomever it may concern],

You’re cold.
At least here, you are.
Cold air seems cleaner to me but I think it’s just psychological.

Cinnamon smells like Christmas.
Any other time I smell Cinnamon…it smells like Cinnamon.

My birthday is in December.
Celebrating life is necessary - this year it was simple and calm.
Usually I’m worried about everyone calling me, because I’m usually afraid of feeling lonely on this day.
But this year, I wasn’t - even with all the birthday love, I was content with the simple words of my family and the friendship of Hannah - and the fact that New Moon was ridiculously entertaining. cough*TeamEdward*cough

It’s a time of firsts - first birthday in Oregon with my wife, first Christmas, first December and it has been so vividly beautiful in all its simplicity.

There is a season changing in our hearts - our hearts warm in the embrace of such comfortable love - a few kind words, a cup of tea and a freshly made pecan pie.

[oh, and thankyou, Bon Iver for reminding me of Oregon and the shifts that have taken place in the midst of all this change.]

Life still finds a way to jump on my back, like a smothering blanket of uncertainty, stress and worry. Of course, the weight lessens the more you face it and talk about it. Otherwise, it gets heavier and darker and turns into short-tempered remarks and dismissive hand waves - how it’s so damaging to our hearts.

this december, I’m thankful for nonviolent communication. I’m thankful for disarming words and honest hugs.

Did I mention that it’s been cold?
Yep. On my way to work, I try to separate my body from the cold — I try to put myself in a warmer place, but it just doesn’t happen.

But also, coffee tastes good in this cold.
A cheap luxury that I have the opportunity to make for others - to share a few words and to send them on their way with a little extracted anti-depressant in the form of water pressing its way through coffee. Such an intriguing art that I’m coming to appreciate more and more each day.

This coffee is supplying jobs for many people. It’s putting food into bellies and is sending kids to school. It’s supplying dignity and a living for many people. I take pride into making the best product for people - we should treat what they grow with pride like any other product.

December, thankyou for making coffee taste so good.
(Also, black tea. PG Tips or Golden Tips Assam - of course!)

I’m thankful for this month - for the bitter things made sweet with a little time and hard conversation. For warm food in our stomachs - a warm home [well, most of the time] and a place to sleep.

God…
is good.
And I’m learning…God is fair.
I’m not always aware…but I’m quite sure God is. I come to fully understand my own broken humanity in the midst of a culture that tries to hide anything imperfect.
Create in me a clean heart.
Breathe deep that graceful air.

I’m reminded of the lilies and sparrows — oh simple beauties,

teach me how to sing.

2009-11-24T13:02:00.000-08:00

Man of God

I found God in myself
and I loved her
I loved her fiercely
- Ntozake Shange

I’m a man…but I do not know fully of what that entails.

I grow weary of “Be a better man” sort of books, or themes such as “Wild at Heart” that teach me to not be a “wimpy nice guy” and become the man made in the Image of God…and discover my "authentic masculinity", which these days, seems kind of threatening.

So, I wonder, how scholars, preachers, authors know so much about “authentic masculinity” – Knowing now that in the world of a male, it all differs and it all shifts. How one man sees himself as a man could be obviously different from the other. This is why it seems difficult to propose to an audience that all men need to get back their “authentic masculinity”.

I’m reading Sue Monk Kidd’s, “Dance of the Dissident Daughter” and I want to scream and kick my feet it’s so good. It’s my wife, Hannah’s book – and it’s filled with stars and underlines and words she’s written such as, “…progress”. In the midst of it all, I better understand her heart and the shift that began to take her on a journey of her own feminist spirituality.

Now, I can’t be a woman. Well, these days you can, but for the sake of this story, let’s just keep it at face value. I used to argue with Hannah and say I couldn’t fully be a feminist because I was a man, but I’m learning this is not true.

And though I call myself a feminist, I’m still working on it. Most days I’m in a constant state of construction. I look at different interactions and I wonder if it goes deeper than I imagine.

I wonder if this “authentic masculinity” I’m apparently in “need” of finding, is oppressive to women? Certainly a Christian author would have kept this in mind, right? I’m sure I just need to read the book, and I’d get a better vision of what he is saying to his fellow, “men of God”.

Kidd writes about her “waking up” from a deep sleep – a sleep that kept her from fully embracing her feminist spirituality: “When a woman wakes up, it’s not experienced in isolation. Her family, the people she’s closest to, will be thrust into the experience as well, because it’s not just the woman who’s expecting a new life. In a way, the whole family is pregnant.”

I was shocked to learn that in the beginnings of Christianity, the church fathers debated whether or not women had souls. Then the issue was whether or not a woman’s soul could be saved – in which the word, “…progress” appears in the margin.

I had a debate a long time ago about women teaching in the church. I had some folks write loads of scripture on why women aren’t allowed to teach in the church and why men are always referred to in roles of the “head”, as women are supposed to wait patiently for the superhero husbands to return from their journeys of sharing the Gospel.
It’s hard to when this, as a post-fundamentalist who knows what the scriptures say about “women keeping their voices quiet” – that women are “second in creation and first to sin” [if you need it, check out 1 Timothy 2:11-14]

I don’t remember Jesus referring to a “woman’s place” – but I could obviously be mistaken.

I’m a man. What does that mean for me?

It’s such a new journey for me. I’m still unraveling the knots that society and unfortunately, some church(ing), has made in the way I see women.

When we were going through marriage counseling, I was glad to talk about submission – that oh-so-sensitive thing that takes place in most vows. But I was so thankful to learn about the peace of equal submission. I was told that I could even go as far to say that men are to be more of a servant, as Jesus calls us to be.

I don’t believe that God is a monster. I also can’t assume anymore that God is fully man – or any specified gender. I do know that God is a God of love, justice, dignity and equality.

It’s about freedom from oppression, not the rules that bind us to be slaves in a world of terrible masters.

And as Sue Monk Kidd writes, “The truth may set you free, but first it will shatter the safe, sweet way you live.”

Waking...from that hibernation...and pregnant with a new sense of freedom.

2009-11-22T13:23:00.000-08:00

waterlogged cardboard.

I hear my doorbell ring followed shortly by a few rushed knocks.
I know who it is – but my heart can’t stand to turn down a small request.

Angry.
Frustrated with a hurtful past interaction and my inability to trust him again. You forced me into a hard situation – one that made me look like a bad person.
The person I became after that showed me a much misunderstood brokenness.

When I’m alone, you need money. When I’m not, you need conversation. I sit and contemplate how God’s heart breaks for the Beloved, and also all the love in those small things. Sandwiches. Candy. A place to sit.

I see signs from shelters that say, “Don’t give to the homeless”…Give to us, they say.
We’ll put it to good use. And I’m sure they do. But maybe sometimes, their need is immediate. Or at least it seems so - to be on the street, the need is always immediate.

I saw a man swaying from exhaustion back and forth behind his cardboard sign that read, “Anything helps. God bless.”

As if those words, “God bless” was supposed to hit me deep…Ha…I’ve seen it before. Whatever.

No…it hits me deep in the gut – like a boulder crashing into that mighty spirit driven river.
Every time. I see your face.

It’s not something I’ve ever been able to get over. I don’t think I will – I don’t think I should.
The cry of the poor. It is prophetic.

The waterlogged cardboard and the hopeless looks.

I’d imagine that holding a sign in front of your face saves a little dignity – but I keep driving…imagining what life would be like without a fallback plan, or without a family to bail me out.

Those words…”God bless” create new meaning when they’re not spoken inside of a church. They bring guilt…and rightfully so. How dare you make me feel guilty for not giving you a few bucks?

My conscious moans. There is an insecurity of losing it all – an outward example of brokenness..
...of holding that sign in front of my face.

2009-11-16T17:49:00.001-08:00

pajama pants and biscuits. [drinking from the same cup]

the day is set right with a little Rosie Thomas and Ani DeFranco.
it's a good day off, spent resting with my wife - watching movie trailers, drinking strong pressed coffee - eating not the best of breakfast foods, but necessary for our lazy sunday.

pajama pants and biscuits.
cold and rainy outside, but it's okay today. It's okay to be inside and not feel guilty for wasting a day...of course I would never call it a day wasted, but a day rested, indeed.

I like to catch up on writing things - or at least reading things, which bring me to write things. I'm not sure why it happens that way, but it does and I can't complain.
In finishing "Reconciling All Things", by Chris Rice and Emmanuel Katongole, I imagine a life of drinking from the same cup.

It's a great reminder of real reconciliation - of not just drinking from the cup of our own redistribution and injustice, but drinking of the same cup with those you build community with...

When two enemies drink from the same cup, real reconciliation begins. Drinking from the cup is intimate and is necessary - it's close. It's something I'm learning to do in the midst of cultural indifference.
Love requires much more -- especially when living in the city tends to harden your skin.
Real life takes place in the mundane, everyday interactions, I'm reminded.

It involves me, living in a community for thirty years and then understanding what needs have yet to be met.
But, I don't want that - I want to change something quick.
I want to shake a hand and smile and give someone a ride and believe that racial inequality just met its match - but it's deeper than that.
It's giving people a ride for decades at a time -- putting up with their dog pooping in your yard, even when they know it's their job to pick it up.

It's finding grace and patience - not something I can really fix in a few months, or even a few years.

I'm learning that, well, I have a lot to learn.

But today, we'll rest and debate going out - only to realize that our sabbath lies within the hearts of each other and our communion with God

and also, in pajama pants and biscuits.

2009-11-07T09:51:00.001-08:00

"I'll eat you up, I love you so!"

I'll be honest and say I've never read, "Where the Wild Things Are".
I may have actually...a long time ago, but I don't remember it.

I watched it tonight and half way through I whispered to Hannah in a half smile, "...this is weird." As to which no surprise Hannah responded, "Yeah, I love it!"

It was weird, but I really liked it too...well, eventually.
Once I got past all of the sadness and confusion and anger of everything, it all came together.
Well, at least after I talked about it for a bit.
I was left feeling like I had watched something meaningful, but I didn't know what.

This was a book that captured the imaginations of my generation seeing as it was published in 1988.
Kids who loved it then are now presented with a piece of art by Spike Jonze, who's an overall super rad cat.
Unfortunately, I can't seem to find a way to relate the movie in a way a child could understand, especially seeing how it took me a few minutes to realize how powerful the characters were.
So, this movie was made for us - for the kids who grew up with this story and the parents and teachers who read it to us when we didn't know how to read.

I enjoy movies that present different characters as metaphors of the main protagonist.
Of course, it took me a while to recognize this, and when I did, it all hit me.

It's a story about growing up - and it's about being angry and misunderstood and frustrated.
It reminds me that sometimes, parents need their kids to mature quicker than they want to.
For financial reasons...for family reasons...it happens.

It reminds me that...sadness always tends to accompany our growing spaces.
We move on...from one season to another and parts of ourselves are angry at that.

Sometimes, Christmas doesn't feel the same as it did when you were 8 years old - but now, you enjoy the simple kindness of the spirit - well, at least I do. You enjoy the more grown up things - eating breakfast - laughing with family - watching the same TBS special that always comes on...ya know, the usual.

But I come back to that sadness - because it's an important tone in this movie and beyond that, it's not something the wild things hide. Each character represents Max and not all of them are friendly and cute. Some are quiet and some ooze with melancholy. Some are angry and some have the grace and kindness only a mother understands.

I walked away with something beautiful...but haunting. A story about growing pains and dirt ball fights...and holes in trees.

It captures the sacred beauty of growing - the hurt, the hilarity and sometimes, the overwhelming sadness.
But it all ends with a thankful and loving embrace -- that there is a gift in pain, for what it's worth and that it's okay...

..it's okay to howl every now and again...

2009-11-04T22:50:00.001-08:00

lost love.

I lost a lotta love when I started to care for our LGBT brothers and sisters.

It was fine to talk about injustice and poverty and oppression, but apparently, I hit the "don't wanna talk about it" button hard.
It is an issue we JUST DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT. But I need to...
And I'm not saying these things to bring up old issues...or to get more comments...but this has been in my heart for a long time coming.

I had someone tell me that they were sorry and that I wasn't who they thought I was. Personally, these people had never known who I really was. Unfortunately, Facebook and the online world isn't real life. I hope this isn't damaging to the future of relationships. :/
Real people have real flesh on them. Not profile pictures.

Sure, they had seen me go to India and Chicago and write about suffering and injustice. It was okay to bring up these issues, as long as I kept away from those other moral issues...the ones that force us to become uncomfortable and hard.

I received personal notes from friends telling me how hard it is to be themselves with their parents. They fear being pushed away - they fear they won't be able to be loved as much as they used to be. With these words, I hurt so badly.
I pray to be a generation that brings change - to offer hope after freedom from oppression and to offer our friends who are poor, the hope of a good God and a future of dignity.

But I've lost some love...in the mix there. I've lost respect -- I've lost words of support because I've chosen to love on the ones who feel oppressed in my generation and generations before me.
I have family members that want to "sit me down for five minutes and talk" - which honestly, scares the living daylights out of me.
To tell me I'm wrong? To tell me they know what truth is? I've already been backed into a corner with scripture and I still can't help but to wander.

I come back to this, because there's something inherently wrong with this pompous spirituality.
Jesus came for the sick and marginalized.
He referred to the brood of vipers, not as the homeless, untouchables, or the culturally unaccepted - but to the church folk! (But this is up for interpretation - like all scripture has been over the past 2000 years -over and over and over and over again.)

I've been called a heretic for saying the poor will inherit the kingdom of God - or that God's love covers all sin.

In the words of one of my favorite people.. "A good default is to love people, man..."
And in the words of sister Leah, "The world just needs good people." The world just needs good people to love on others. You don't have to be part of a nonprofit to do good...

But you know, this is just my journey. Five years ago, I would have thought I was ridiculous for believing what I believe now. Oh, what grace I've learned.
It is life and it is in these experiences that I have been pushed to dive in further to this Great Mystery.
It has taken me standing in front of angry homeless crack addicts, to the dying and destitute...to the trafficked and oppressed women made in the image of God...to the love between two human beings - such humanity has brought me into this mystery - and it has cost me...

Tears and anger and misunderstanding.
I am sorry I'm not who you thought I was - I'm not sorry, however, for believing in a love greater than my own understanding of the word.

"Revolution is not something fixed in ideology, nor is it something fashioned to a particular decade. It is a perpetual process embedded in the human spirit."
-Abbie Hoffman

2009-10-20T19:06:00.000-07:00

what the trees teach me.

I've never lived in a place that changes colors like Oregon.
I've never seen trees seemingly burst into flames, showing off their fiery orange pigment.

I truly believe they're showing off for us - telling us that they're something special, and dear friends, they are.
The seasons come, the winds cool and night chills those branches.
I don't want these leaves to go just yet.
"Just stay a little while longer.." I'd say.

But they do - and they do so in such a beautiful fashion.
I watch my wife try to catch them as they fall in a quick breeze and I notice the wonder of such an auspicious occasion.
We are witnessing life at one of its most pivotal moments.

As my friend Clint [Who he and his wife married me and Hannah] said, "We're not so good at doing death..."
And by we're, I assumed he meant the U.S. culture.
I think for the most part, he was right.

We get afraid - at least, a lot of us are. I do, on the occasion.
We move and change from season to season...but we're still here...we're still alive.

I remember my mom had a book she used to give to the children of those patients who were in her hospice program. It was a book designed to help the younger [and older] family members with the passing of their dear ones.
It was a book about leaves.
It was a book about how these leaves change in different seasons.
First the leaves grow from young sprouts and bud into beautiful green sleeves.
As winter comes -- they gain a beautiful orange, yellow and brown.
And as the leaves fall to the grown, they become part of something much bigger.

So as I'm watching these trees...I see life...and I see life coming near its end. Those leaves that once sheltered birds and creatures from a hot sun are slowly falling to the earth where they will become part of the greater mystery.

I wish we were better at death.
The trees are teaching me to be better at life.

And perhaps when my season comes, I will further recognize the Great Mystery as I become eternally reconciled to its Creator.

I'm thankful for the bright yellow and orange that paints our streets.
I'm thankful for those details - the veins in each tiny leaf that give us air.
...for the shade
...for the beauty
...for the imagination
...for the understanding of seasons

for life.
thankyou.

For what the trees teach me will come around every year.
And when that time comes..

..my eyes will be open upon their wonder.

2009-10-15T14:32:00.001-07:00

a convicted proclamation [an affirming adoration.]

I sat in front of my bosses - the owners of a cafe in Portland.
Both women and both proud lesbians.

Thoughts stream through my mind as I try to find reason to disagree with their love.

They're telling me that they are giving me a manager position because the cafe would fail unless they were both willing to take full time jobs.
One of the owners is from Finland - the other...a Portland citizen (albeit, sometimes hard to find.)
They had been long distance upon my fresh employment at their cafe - They have known each other since high school and they are well beyond the angst of that time.
Getting to know them has brought me to a conclusion that a lot of people don't want to hear me say.

They are.... absolutely in love.
Our owner from Finland made the decision to move back across the other side of the world, so we could all have our jobs.

I watched, as the owners sat across from each other and wept...apologizing for their appearance...I shook my head, "No...I'm so...sorry."
It was making me tear up.
I know the pain of long distance - of the one you're going to spend your life with.
Another year apart, they said, but that "we...were worth it".
They didn't want to see us homeless.

I grew up with the idea that the GLBT community wore nothing but leather chaps and the whole reason of their existence was a case mistaken identity - selfish, rude, sinful, confused...you know those words.

Their relationships were perverted...wrong...disrespectful...collapsing our moral fiber...
I would call my friends, "Fags..."
I would call a situation, "Gay.."

For what??? What makes a situation gay?
If it's dumb?
If it's out of place?
If it's ignorant?
I'm ignorant.

Oh, such a deep hidden wound.

We....so proud of ourselves for oppressing an entire community of humanity.
There is an internal shift...
A river...flowing into my heart.

I sat with God today.

I asked Her why my heart hurt for my owners - whether I was wrong to feel empathy for their love - for their sacrifice for people they don't even know that well.

I told God that I was going to have a lot of His followers speak down to me and tell me I'm flat out wrong for fully loving His Beloved.
I knew what I had been taught - to love them, but hate what they do.

the word, "they" furthering myself even more...
I'm awfully sick of it.
The politics...the guidelines...the FEAR!

More importantly...disagreeing with family. Friends.
Not becoming angry...but disagreeing.
We...well, at least I try to assume that it's okay to disagree as long as we disagree well with one another.

I crave love...and affirmation from my family - but I can assume that I will get no affirming words or thoughts..and..I can be okay with that.
I will see these people throughout my life, and they will be silent until I write or say something that they can say back...from a distance. I humbly speak, though I know my words won't make it past a few OT scriptures and a literal context of a few of Paul's lines. {though folks have read his words and walked away oppressing African Americans..Jews..and the subordination of women..}

I can't be afraid to write - whether or not it agrees with the reader.
I can't be afraid to say what my heart witnesses.
I ran away from this - because I believed it was hurting my relationships, but I have gained more love and admiration for simply loving others enough to see my heart.

You can tell me what the Bible says about homosexuality, and I can tell you that the bible says in Deuteronomy 22 that if you're fiancee is not a virgin upon marriage, she should be put to death.

And then, you have these couple of verses in Romans 1 that say, "Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural relations for unnatural ones. In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed indecent acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their perversion."

I ask you though, if a person can get past this..?
If not, our conversation ends here and I'm absolutely sorry for wasting your time. [By the way, I'm not trying to convince you - we all have the freedom to believe what we want.]

If we're talking context - take into consideration what many scholars believe that Paul is talking about homosexual rape - an act which took place quite often among Roman soldiers and young men - that's unnatural. I feel that any relationship that naturally hurts another emotionally and sexually, is unnatural. This means...it's not healthy.
But does it talk about long term homogeny? The same partners for life?

{"Many scholars..." sounds awfully vague eh? Well, look it up. Read about it. You don't have to agree - but open your mind to the world outside, after all, we are made in the image of God} Or maybe some reading this don't believe in God or have been hurt by God's followers...regardless, you are welcome in this conversation and know that my love for God has come out of a personal journey of faith...with nurturing family and friends.
{And love...oh yes, love... of the Beloved, the hurting, the oppressed, the dying, the destitute..}

But back to what I was saying before...
It seems when we see two same-sex partners...we imagine sex - we imagine how gross and wrong it is for them to be doing that to each other.
But friends, have we seen what heterosexual couples do to each other?? Please, go elsewhere with the thoughts you have about heterosexual couples being pure and healthy.
I've seen some damaging things - we're all guilty of unnatural sexuality.
We're all guilty of unhealthy persuasions.

If you're not, then sorry again for wasting your time.
After all, it was a family member that showed me what pornography was - how it was okay and how it should have been normal for men to like looking at naked women.

It was in your home where my eyes became haunted with these pictures.
You don't talk about this being wrong...do you?
You don't hear me talking about how it fucked up the relationships with people I love and who love me...?

You don't care about the extended adolescence of men who sit behind their computers and masturbate or fantasize about underage girls forced into some sexual predicament?

What matters more to you, dear brothers and sisters...?

I'm not oblivious to what I have said here. I know it doesn't settle well with many people..but that's the risk I take in feeling alive.

People are precious gifts in this world.
Once we start seeing that our brokenness lies in each other - then perhaps we will all start placing our hands on the wounds.

I'm so sorry.
I can't be silent.
I saw their love....

...and it moved me in ways hate could never touch.

2009-10-04T19:51:00.001-07:00

hiatus - a pause

I've been struggling with this a lot lately.
My writing has helped me beyond any medium of processing life and I feel as though I am coming to a halt.

I'm not sure if my writing matches my actions.

I have a hard time writing these days on injustice, reconciliation, and my relationship with the Beloved - I'm not sure if I deserve to write on such precious and delicate things without living a life centered around such issues.

I'm beginning my season of managing a coffeeshop in portland - and will be busy a lot of the time making sure all is well in the transition..
I struggle because the clients and security in our area would more than likely turn their noses up at the poor and here I am - claiming to have a heart for these dear ones that get shoved away from the area where I work.
But then again, maybe it is a season for a different kind of reconciliation.

Regardless, I'm feeling upon my soul a hiatus - to work on my writing more privately and perhaps seen less hypocritically.
I don't feel folks read much of my messy ramblings anymore anyways, so I'm sure I'm just tootin' my own horn for the sake of an audience.

It's always a pleasure to get feedback - and I'm afraid has put me in some difficult places with some family and friends who used to enjoy and share my writings, now hide them and ultimately become concerned with my well-being.

So, I deeply apologize and ask for a soul moving conviction to be more intimate with my relationships.

I'm sure I'll come back soon...but for now, I don't want to offer up anymore of the same noise - the same thing people hear and never see acted out, or any actual loving being lived among the precious Beloved.

sending so much love and peace to my dear friends and family.

josh

2009-10-04T10:11:00.000-07:00

aching reconciliation.

These things come out of a book I've been reading recently for a book group called, "Reconciling All Things" - A Christian Vision for Justice, Peace and Healing by Chris Rice and Emmanuel Katongole.

I've had a hard time reading at times, like most books. I hear something that strikes a particular chord in my heart and I have to stop and process. I'm only through with the first chapter and there is so much to say! Oh goodness.
I have a hard time with just merely processing words through reading. It does me much better to write on a certain thought. It allows me to understand it better - I'm sure there are tons of others that feel the need to do the same. I'm there with you.

Within a few pages are folks like Jean Vanier of the L'Arche Community in France and Dr. John Perkins of Mendenhall, MS. - who are such inspiring people in my life. I don't know them, I wish I did, but they inspire my life none-the-less.
Jean Vanier was a well-to-do naval officer who's own loneliness called him to create community among the mentally ill and "clinically crazy" persons that were forced into their own loneliness and separation from our society.

John Perkins has a story a little more closer to home. He was almost beat to death by a group of white cops in Mississippi and has since then founded centers for reconciliation and is a worldly sought after speaker and activist. I don't think his heart is so much in traveling than it is living among his community.
He is an example of reconciliation.
He put flesh on the word and covered it in forgiveness and compassion.
He didn't have to forgive us white folks for almost killing him -- but he did and continues to do so everyday.
He forgives the Southern Baptist congregations that wouldn't allow him in their services.

Among terms that I have fallen in love with in the past few years, "Reconciliation" is one of them. It's such a holistic word that brings about lots of heaviness, hope and personal memoir.
My story brings me to the South - in which Chris Rice, one of the authors and directors of the Duke Divinity School's Center for Reconciliation is too familiar with.

My heart finds itself on a journey back to the South.
Having the perspective of a Northwestern brotha, things catch me off guard all the time.
I learn more and more that we are a nation that needs and craves reconciliation - real...actual reconciliation.

For example, at work I made the comment that it's too hot in Mississippi for houses to have fireplaces (joking mostly, because houses in MS don't usually have fireplaces because we rarely have a good season to use them, but I know homes do have them..sheesh)
And in response, one of my co-workers says jokingly, "Yeah, if you guys want warmth you can just light a cross on fire!"
And in the rise of laughter came my smirk and I hung my head low.

Is this the image people have?
And is it sad that some folks down South and elsewhere would laugh at this joke because of their hearts are still in a place of hatred...?
yes.

Again and again I will say that I'm not pressing on any particular group of persons - because saying that for all Southerners would be a huge lie.
But this lie is lived out a lot in other areas of this country and throughout other countries in need of their own kinds of reconciliation.

That joke...about the cross on fire - hurts my heart, and I'll smirk and shake my head because I'm not looking to start a discussion every time I hear something like that...because I here it often.

And I often, just have to shake my head.
It's a bit offensive and causes a great pain in my heart.

To sum up these messy thoughts that don't necessarily flow together all the well, the authors ask,

"What and where are the patterns of life and social structures to sustain a vision of reconciliation?"

Are we willing to live these things out as a conflicted humanity?
Are we willing to mend the broken body of Christ - placing our hands in the wounds?

May our actions be peaceful in the midst of anger and frustration.

May the older and wiser generations have grace on my idealistic heart..especially when I start getting less than hopeful reactions from the generations that say we need massive weaponry and scare tactics to keep the "peace" along with our place in the world.

If so, my life will be utterly exhausting as I march the other way - promoting peace and reconciliation to a hurting humanity and the ultimate reconciliation...

..to myself.

2009-09-30T14:38:00.001-07:00

walls.

Quietly walking to work, I notice the stillness in the world.

I see the bright and flashing glow of television sets left on in the midst of insomnia and too much caffeine or sugar, or whatever keeps people up at night.

Maybe their thoughts - Mine have from time to time.

I think of the hustle and crowds of India.
I think of the politics of land ownership and I think of the dear ones left outside of the walls. I think of its mass humanity and the people that would fill up this nice part of town that I get the pleasure, well, sometimes pleasure of working in from time to time.

I walk by a warm vent and it feels good when I scrunch up with the cold breeze - I think to myself that it would be a good place to rest if I didn’t have a warm place to go to - but I do. I have a wall that separates me from the broken pieces of the world. {Not leaving out the broken places that reside inside of homes as well…}

I was watching “City of Joy” - a movie based upon the book by Dominique Lapierre, and came across a scene in which the “overbearing” landlord explains that to us Westerners - money is just money…paper…with a face on it…but to those who live in Calcutta, it is a Wall.

And this word, Wall stuck out to me. Because…he was right. In Calcutta, rupees equal walls and those walls separate you from the street. That’s what you work for, that’s what you lie for and that’s what you steal for…that wall.

In living in that city for a mere 4 months and learning more upon my life back in the states, I cannot ever seem to wrap my mind around the mass humanity and the injustice that is sewn into the system. I don’t know if it’s the Westerner mindset that believes we can solve all problems and that we know what every culture needs to do to work.

This simple realization came to me as Sonny and I diagnosed the traffic system in India saying, “Jeez, wouldn’t be easier if they had lights and lanes??” Followed by an almost immediate reaction of, “Nah…it just works better this way. Just too many people going to too many places.”

And I’m not sure if that made sense, but that realization helped me to calm down about my Westerner urge to say all of the systems were ridiculous. ”What do I know…?” I would have to constantly question myself.

Change begins with relationship. Systematic change.

I hurt because the odds of me ever changing that kind of system are pretty slim. I think about the amount of men and corrupt officials that walk into those districts and wonder what it would take to make them see life differently. I dream about making these men and that government conscious about the damage they are inflicting on their own people and the ones that are lied to and tricked into leaving their own country.

It’s too big sometimes. I get overwhelmed and frustrated, and I don’t even live there. But it’s 2009 and these things just shouldn’t exist.

Another world is possible and our lives should be fixed on bringing Heaven to earth in those ways - of justice and freedom and dignity.
Imagine your life with none of that, and understand the reality for millions.

These walls…are bigger than I realize.

2009-09-22T18:27:00.000-07:00

muddy-bottomed theology.

“It’s okay, you’re worth more than a white shirt”, Wade said as he lifted his ‘muddy-bottomed’ son upon his shoulders with the tired request of the little one.

And this line stuck with me, because it’s bigger than a lot of the little things that make a lot of noise – rather than something temporary – this life exchange was bigger than a good ole’ fashioned ride on dad’s shoulders.

The past few days have been very rich with beautiful landscapes and deep and delightful conversations.

I visited a place where orphans and widows lose their identity and become each other’s family.
There is no program.
There are no classes.
But there is...healing.
There is no need to compete theologically, but there is a need of good flip-flops.
It’s a place where Beautiful Mommas and their Babies live safely and within the arms of God and God’s peaceful creation.

There is a sense of reconciliation to the human condition – a hope that not all men are terrible beings and that life goes on beyond addiction and depression.

Walking in the woods, some picked blackberries while I tried keeping a preciously hyper dog occupied by throwing her slobber soaked ball along the trail…

One of the amazing things about being married to Hannah is her ability to remind others that people are of greatest worth. Being with her, this realization has soaked deep into the way I process my heart in relation to the world.

So, when Wade made the decision to mess up his shirt, it was a decision that put the person above the comfort of physical appearance. Also it was out of love for his son – a little more like metaphor in the heart of a dreamer as the likes of me. I was there to witness a precious moment that gave me ability to dream for a better world.

I know that I always seem to look into these things pretty delicately – as in, the person showing me this action does it without thinking, but I see it and I see it as something big. I see it like a big secret – like I’m watching life in the front row not missing the details.

Of course, it takes these times when I can slow down and appreciate dipping my toes into a cool stream or contemplating on the heart of God and inviting the presence of God into a group of conflicted young revolutionaries. Well, maybe we’re a bit more 'rebellious of the norm' than revolutionary.

We dream and we process.
We invite criticism and we push back. We learn to become vulnerable among a world that likes to keep its people at a nice comfortable distance.
People are of greatest worth – regardless of their past – or how muddy they become.

Riding on dad’s shoulders became a hopeful picture into the tangible Kingdom of Heaven.
Goodness gracious, my heart is full and another world is possible.

Sending Peace your way, Beloved.
You are not forgotten.

2009-09-13T14:56:00.000-07:00

here and there.

"...watching the trains go by reminding me there are places that aren't here."

You can only be in one place - though this realization haunts me at times.
I want to be near my hurting family and I need to be with my wife, and my home.
But after all, home is very relative and is a combination of all sorts of things.

My home is with people. It's not a place I can easily call upon to fill me with comfortable landmarks and smells.
My home is in the hearts of others. Family and friends. To me, home is an exchange.

On my flight home I leaned against the window watching the trains pull their brown rectangle loads winding around the dry Mississippi riverbeds - like a sidewinder in the desert sand. It looked quite majestic from so far up.
The clouds were creamy smooth and the sun was brilliant...a little flirty to say the least.
It puts the world into perspective.

Seeing Mt. Hood on my left flying as high as its peak - God, what a gorgeous piece of Earth that You decided to help fold up. There was a bit of fresh snow fall - and it all looked so clean from where I was sitting, but we were so far away.

It's obvious to say that I hate being so far away.
...so far away from the pain that is in the hearts of my family and friends.
...so far away from the teachers that fear that, when their students go home - they don't eat.
...so far away from the pressures and stress of debt and that sagging economy that is sucking the life out of our culture. [whatever kind of culture America has, anyway.]

It's all really heavy. A word that I have been using too much lately. It's the only word I can use to describe it though. Whatever "it" is.
I got to use some of my time in the South to sit at Waffle House.
I brought some paper and a pen and wrote a bit of what was on my mind with the help of greasy hashbrowns, pecan waffle and a fresh cup of coffee - hot and weak as it was, it felt good going down.

I wrote about joy and pain. Pain or suffering, both similar and filling the same place in our hearts. I sat and wondered about the joy that eventually fills in this aching place. A place that we fill with tears and numbing things - and hopefully a place that has room for the good parts of life.
I think about how deep and wide pain digs into our souls...and I think about how full that hole can become - not just with pain or suffering, but with Joy.
Joy fills our cups quickly.

Joy is Cooper's smile and sharing a meal with the family...or a great big hug from my wife.

Suffering is the loss of one of God's children. {and the thousands of God's children that die everyday.}

The Soul...is Joy.
Joy fills our cups quickly and we wish to hold it near as long as we can. And Beloved, drink while it's full because those things...pain and suffering... can come back to us as quickly as we swallow.

Dear Beloved,

Be loved.

And love...here and there.
Find your joy, and let it quench your thirst for the time being.

Pain and suffering will always be here - necessary and heartbreaking - like a sad song.
And let us weep for this sadness..

and let us illuminate and dance with our fellow Beloved in love and hope...

oh,
and of course...Joy.

2009-08-26T19:00:00.001-07:00

For Grace - A Child of God

People have the ability of brilliant and awful ways of changing your views on Goodness, and where that lies in our humanity.

Honestly, my heart has been breaking over and over again this past week.
A terrible sadness - the loss of a beautiful person.

You see, our family has known the Lamontes' for a long time now...before my mom married their son, who became my stepdad, Ricky.
The Lamontes' were always a good time - accompanied with laughter and great Italian cookies.

As I know them as Mr. Tony and Mrs. Grace - they were my step-grandparents, and grandparents all in the same.
They loved me and my sister dearly, as though we were their immediate family, and that is always how it felt to be near them.
You felt loved...you felt like they didn't judge you but offered their own ways to love each person uniquely.

A heartbreaking story - one that makes the letters on this screen blurry because I can't stop my tears from making that terrible lump in my throat...makes it hard to swallow because you try to hold back...
Tears...are necessary.
Mr. Tony and Mrs. Grace were involved in a robbery this past weekend.
Three men broke into their home, shooting Mrs. Grace and Mr. Tony - Grace did not survive, and Tony remains in the hospital with a gunshot wound to the chest.

As my sister broke me the news, in came a flood of emotions that only the death of a loved one can bring...questions, questions, why..hate....injustice...sadness...God...and more sadness.

You bring up the last memory that you were with them...which for me was at our wedding reception in Mississippi...
Grandma Grace had just recovered from a long stint of chemotherapy saying,
"I'm feeling better everyday! My hair's even comin' back darker and fuller than before!"

It was such great news and her face lightened up the room.

To hear of this..horrific and heartbreaking incident, I was crushed.
Burying my head into Hannah, I wept for such sadness and innocence..
I prayed for peace to be on the hearts of family members who were experiencing such anger - and understandably so.

A dear one was taken from us - and I wrestled with the question quite often -- As to why God allows these terrible things to happen to such good and loving people.
And I feel God..carrying me and loving me - I know it's not God who allows this, but a product of a fallen humanity. So much hate and greed and power, manifests itself in our society.

This is a product of a broken people.
A people...in desperate need of...

Grace.

So we ask for forgiveness, for our terrible thoughts and violent actions. For the blood spilled among innocent lovers of God and the Beloved.

We thankyou, God, for giving us grace..

and we thankyou, for giving us Mrs. Grace. A beautiful daughter named after the most redeeming kind of Love.

I know that You were with her when she was scared...when she didn't know how to react and with her reaction, You were there and caught her when she fell.
She met her creator, that night...
and I know...that God was with them both.

Mr. Tony is doing better. Our prayers and thoughts are with him in this incredibly difficult time...and justice is on its way.

Thankyou for being such a light in a terribly dark world, Grandma Grace.
We love you.

grace.
how sweet the sound.

2009-08-17T14:53:00.000-07:00

[thoughts of] a doula's husband

Okay...
I really..really enjoy my wife, Hannah.

This could be stated as something obvious...that maybe you're married because you obviously enjoy her so much -- that you wanted to be together for, well life.

Doing life together.
I do love this phrase, because that's what it is.
Doing life together.

For those who don't know, Hannah is a doula...she assists women in pre-natal, birth and postpartum with all things birth related - emotional, comfort exercises, and technical...things.... [and by technical, I mean helping with intimidating doctor lingo.]

But another word I could use to describe Hannah in this process is an advocate.
She empowers the women she works with to make their own decisions about their own birth - not a doctor who wants to be home by 5pm and schedules a "crucial" c-section. (but that's for another day..)
She advocates for their freedom to make choices and to feel in control of what their bodies can do.

I must say...I am so intrigued by it all.
I've seen too many illustrations of breasts and bellies...and...well...you get the picture. [literally.]

"10 centimeters...!?" I proclaim in awe.
Yes,
10 centimeters.

Needless to say...I'm so proud of Hannah - how confident she is to help guide these women through highly emotional times and the impact it has on her... So much life in it all...it's incredible.

Hannah got a call at 11:30 last night as she was in that 'mid-dose-off' kind of sleep. It was a momma who was beginning the first stages of labor. I sat...and watched Hannah go from sleepytime to "Do-Work Doula" explaining that "Yes..that's fine...that's going to happen" and "You should try to rest if you can, but it's completely up to you to make these decisions".

3am rolled around as I was slapped awake by a phone call from Han's client who needed Han to come be with her. Hannah got up, got dressed and took a cab to their house.

Simply...incredible. Such an intimate moment in these peoples' lives...and Hannah is there and is trusted.

She is a comfort to them because she is empowering and advocating for them to have the best birth possible by making their own decisions and affirming their thoughts- creating such a powerful birth experience.

This is just one of the reasons I enjoy Han so much...besides the fact that she's such an incredible person, friend, wife...she is truly an inspiration to me and teaches me so much about loving others - and expanding my heart for God and the Beloved.

yep.
my wife's a doula.
and she kicks ass.

2009-08-12T15:31:00.000-07:00

nonfiction[fiction]friction.

Nonfiction.
Narrative as fact.
Well, at least fact to the person writing it.
I love nonfiction. Nothing like a good memoir or a "How ____ Saved me From _____ {..And Why I Became a Vegan}" or something neat like that full of delicious confliction.

I think this world is big enough to hold epic stories that require only a form of 'word regurgitation' [I've been wanting to use that word for a while...still not sure if I should have..]

I love 'how to' things. I love reading people who process life things by unusual means.
People simply intrigue me, and I am captivated by their hearts.

oh, but wait.
then there's this thing called fiction.
it's the land of dragons, journeys, epic battles, love stories and that other thing that goes with love sometimes...oh yeah, heartbreak. sweet, sweet imagination.
Fiction is simply...made up. But because it's made up doesn't mean it can't teach you things the way nonfiction can. [ha, great generic filler sentence.]

What I've been learning, as I read, is that I read fiction way quicker than nonfiction.
Fiction, for some reason, in my head resonates a story that will always be there for me to come back to...like I can read through it, knowing good and well it will hit me the same way.

Nonfiction, on the other hand takes me a bit longer to work through - almost like I need to get it right the first time, or I'll never come back to it. This is sometimes how it works with books that are theological or deeper than I care to be reading when I'm in a light mood.
I feel like books come at us when we're ready.
I've bought books and haven't read them...but I somehow...come across them when I need to.
Some nonfiction just gets plain ole' stale.
Sometimes, the reasonings and explanations outweigh the excitement of learning what the author has to say.

At least, this is how my mind processes it. And by no means do I speak for anyone else.

Sometimes, I feel like there are a lot of people who WANT to like C.S. Lewis, but just can't make it past the first few chapters (like me, unfortunately...hah]
That is unless it's Narnia, in which I have to stop myself from skipping paragraphs in an extremely eager excitement to get to the next crucial scene of great metaphor.

Does that make any sense? Maybe not.

I love both, and am excited to get into more of an understanding why these are so important to our lives and culture.

Gosh.
I just...love words.

2009-08-10T17:22:00.000-07:00

wonder and love [& anger]

I come to think about how I am...loved...

Not just loved...like, getting your hands on a warm cookie and it tasting exactly how you want it to..kind of love...but a massive transformation; an outlook into the broken and beautiful Beloved.

It's a giddy love.
An almost...nervously anticipated love.

A love...that forgives me of judging my brothers and sisters before I even hear them speak or act or accuse.
It hasn't been easy and it's still not easy.
There's nothing easy about feeling loved - to me, anyways. Because I know my faults and I know deep down that I'm hurting and angry and seeking a thirsty affirmation that will never be quenched.

Being loved..feeling loved comes from being included within the relationships of our Creator. There is not choosing...who deserves love, other than the fact that we are, inherently...loved.

These things that hold love...forgiveness...grace - these are things I've been needing to give myself.
I'm tired of being angry at systems...though we are always seeming to find ourselves in an never-ending quest for power...for knowledge that allows us to win...to be above the 'lesser' intellectual. Every piece of this deserves our grace. The corruption and greed - this too, deserves our grace. You being angry, is exactly what it sounds like...you...are angry. I'm not sure love can meet itself in anger.

And..I'm having to learn to grow out of this anger into a place where I can nurture relationship with the things that I am frustrated about. the politician. the ceo. the neighbor. the customer. the oppressor. the man. over-consumption. evil. hunger. crime. Our love has gone to waste when we treat these things in anger.
Not to mention, our decisions will wreak in its smell.

But really, I don't know much. Just trying to grasp what I can...when it's all around me and when I'm submerged into a Love that offers me such a full relationship with all these parts of creation and Creator.

What a beautiful thing, really.
Something...I'm still trying to make sense of...but is such a rad adventure.

To grasp this understanding of the Great Mystery - is beyond me...but that's what is so great about it..because it's beyond anything I'll ever be able to process.
It is not for intellectuals..but for dreamers and feelers and lovers and for those who remember that our hearts work better when we see ourselves as children fascinated with the wonder and Love of God.

2009-08-04T17:08:00.000-07:00

love your spouse.

I hear screams in the apartment next to us. It’s nothing out of the ordinary on a warm day – or any day it seems.

They are hurtful yells – accusations and annoyed tempers. My wife and I sit and lay and read. We talk about our dreams of community. We learn that we’re quite oblivious to some of life’s common misperceptions.

Throughout college, I craved community as I read about living in large houses with many people and thought of having in depth conversations about God, life and social justice. It all sounded perfect, at least for a wannabe revolutionary.

These books that I came across talked about community among the broken places of Empire. They showed me a world that could be reconciled within neighborhoods and along abandoned streets. But I wondered what was so revolutionary about the communities I often saw.

As far as I was concerned, community was sexy.
It was the thing to do and the place to be. We lived with people that were young, single and attractive and whom would maybe consider themselves intellectuals. We all believed life flowed in the same general direction.

Then one day something happened that broadened my definition of communal life: Marriage.

Why was marriage so different from the way I had lived alongside others before? Because you can’t leave when you’re ready to follow the next big, new thing. Not to mention that the bathroom has way more interesting things to poke at and the laundry never seems to be done.

There are others living life together who are committed, I know. These are the groups of people who chose each other a long time ago, despite differences and disagreements, aging and restlessness. But I had never been able to be a part of that… at least not for long. I think there’s a word for this sort of choosing. Faithfulness.

This type of community is, well, necessary.

That is not to say that more short-term communities are lesser or greater – but that they are different. Maybe some things have a greater chance of growing if you leave their roots alone.
This past February I listened to a group of 20-somethings ask questions about community, and their struggles to find it with their neighbors.

A man came up to ask one of the speakers about he and his wife’s recent move into a low-income neighborhood. He spoke with frustration because he wasn’t seeing any progress and was having a hard time getting to know the people they now shared the block with. We all understood exactly where this guy was coming from and a collective chuckle came from the audience.

The speaker grabbed the microphone and said one of the most influential statements I would ever hear. “You want to create community?” he asked, “love your wife and work on your marriage.”

These were not nearly the words I had expected to hear. It sounded so simple, but rooted itself deep down into a place that I still process with hard questions. When my wife and I find ourselves angry at one another, we are learning to speak with peace rather than violence. We are learning to lay down our weapons before we accuse the other of carrying their own.

In the most basic sense, we are learning.

We are learning that sometimes, community is closer to home than we think.

2009-07-27T12:15:00.001-07:00

"I miss feeling like the Beloved..."

Frustrated at the size of life and the unkindness of strangers -- I found myself unloving and seemingly unlovable.

I felt far away.
Not knowing what to call God...or how to call God.

He..or She? Who would I offend - does it matter?
I need God to be both - in fact, assuming that we're made in the image of God, there is a place for both. There is the desperate need of father and mother; the nurturing aspect of both.

I was feeding myself off angry tones and rushed agendas.
There was a lack of community with the Beloved - a group that I didn't feel a part of anymore - though being in this "group", as my terribly conflicted mind processed, requires no membership card or jacket or renewal.

You don't have an account number and you are not updated every now and then on special deals.

I feel like...in the world of forwards, comments and emails - God is the one who still writes us letters.
God still does it old-school.
He still requires me to look up, to be quiet...to turn off this warm machine on my lap.

God still writes me letters.

Telling me...
"I love you.
You are not what you wear.
You are not what you eat.
You are not who people think you are.
If you run, I'll chase you.
When it's dark, it may seem dark for a while,
but I will take it away and replace it with something much richer."

"I'm not far away," God says, "even though you don't feel Me."
"Even when people left you in life, I won't...and I never have...right?"

but I'm stubborn.
I feel like I'm left alone.
Why do I always question You..and Your existence?

We have turned You into thousands of books of theology - for intellectuals, professors and students - but what about the ones who will never read those books?
We have turned You into debates!
We have turned Your wonder into words like Calvin, Edwards, Reformed, Emergent...the list goes on. [also not disregarding these interpreters of the Gospel.)

Like Tolstoy - one of the most influential writers and thinkers who strived for perfection - but found faith while sharing the burden of the poor...
And again, it is the meek that bring us to God's heart.
The humility.

the lily and the sparrow - God reminds us.

God reminds us that we are taken care of...even more so.
But how I wish sometimes, that I could just be a lily..or sparrow.

And I find myself, sitting in front of this letter...
This letter that God is writing me...
Telling me that I'm the Beloved -
that I'm not what people think of me -
that I'm not what I eat or think of -

but that I am God's,
and that I'm a prodigal in a sense of thoughts - spending them lavishly and then returning - head down - thankful for forgiveness - thankful for the embrace.

Thankful for the letters that God writes me.
Thankful that they'll never be finished.

Thankful...

2009-07-19T18:45:00.001-07:00

when the church gets upset...

it's about harry potter;
it's about fiction on screen.

..when they have to wait outside restaurants
..when people don't think the way they think

the church gets upset when the other president is elected.

the church doesn't get upset...about racial injustice, patriarchy and poverty.

the church doesn't get upset about excluding women.

Doesn't anyone turn over tables anymore!?
the church needs to be upset when families can't eat.

And I'm not speaking for all churches.
And I'm not looking for more criticism because I understand the damages that take place when we do nothing but tear each other down.

I do, though, find myself in contemplation about these things when I think about the church and what we tend to fight for and get fussy about.

I worry about submission;
I worry about the idol that dangerous men can turn submission into..
...especially in such cultural context.

I believe our submission lives in God.

Sometimes it's trendy to criticize the church and if this comes off as that - then I apologize and you can disregard everything I say.

It's just been interesting lately, to see the things that people get upset over, and as Wendell Berry asks, "Does this actually help society?"

This is the question I've been asking myself. What I buy...what I feel passionate about...does it help society? Does it alleviate poverty? Does it promote nonviolence and peace? Does it allow me to love my neighbor better?

What questions are we asking, as the wounded Body of Christ?

and what is it that we're really hurting for?

2009-06-29T23:47:00.000-07:00

issues.

jon and kate.
jennifer anniston and...some guy.

who's getting fat?
who's too thin?

drama.

I have issues with media in general. But, I want to specifically point out magazines.
Granted, we all do, [have issues] but there has to be some psychology in these bright and angry magazine articles that pull at our shirts for some attention.

I want to look at this a little closer.
Covers full of white people.
rich white people and their issues.
rich white people and their bodies.
rich white people with their issues about their bodies.

I stood in line with a cart full of groceries -- checking over the list hannah made me, because otherwise I would come home with beef jerky and a slab of velveeta [mostly kidding] -- and I see one tiny magazine representing the African American community. Jet. And Jet is tiiiny.

And I unpacked this situation self-consciously. As I stood in line behind a few folks from my community, I was immediately loaded with a sense of humiliation.
I'm wanting to scream, "I'm so..so..sorry. You live in a culture that has nothing but white people on the cover of so many products - how uncomfortable that makes me feel to imagine the other way around - and how selfish I am to not consider your hearts in the midst of it all."

I want to say, "Please..please, ignore this garbage..." But these aisles are filled with fair skinned beauties and handsome bachelors who carry narcissism like the black plague.

I begin to feel out of place. I hold back an apologetic, timid smile.

We have turned a heartbreaking divorce into a product!!
Do we care what those beautiful children are going to go through!!??

My heart...my heart, how it breaks for them -- the sting of tears for these babies eyes to come...attachment disorders and broken social scenes. Oh dear hearts, how I hope they are being cared for in this time.

And the heaviness of seeing rich white people with their issues among what we call the minority of America's population. Insensitive. Hurtful.

There are days when I become uncomfortable with my skin color. I'm worried of the connotation of having white skin, and what that means within my community and the relationship with my neighbor.

i have issues.
they may not fit inside a magazine, but they are just as human.

I walk out with my groceries and I leave behind jon and kate, jennifer, brad and the jonas brothers with the orbit gum and lent rollers.

asking for forgiveness. for grace in the midst of it all.

i hope to have some grace with these issues of mine...
if so, maybe it can fit in between the strawberries and those..delicate eggs.

2009-06-27T11:18:00.000-07:00

simplicity of words.

I believe words have the ability to move or keep mountains in their place. These days, almost literally.

And what I mean by this, to a somewhat socially introverted feeler and perceiver, is that words can shatter the walls around my heart. [especially as I crave words of affirmation..tsk tsk, love language.]

In college, we stretch words as far as they can go.
I realize how damaging that is now; especially for our writing.

When we need a 20 page paper, we tell professors what it is, what we learned, what we learned again, and remind them again, what we learned.
When you get to about page 15, and your laying on the ground below your computer desk wanting to slam your face into your monitor, words that fill space flow like the mighty Mississippi. You end up finishing your paper in those final crucial moments and you think that life is going to be okay. [That is, after you get a couple hours of sleep before turning it in.]

A book I'm reading right now called, "On Writing Well" issues this problem, or "lack of simplicity". [I know, it's funny to read a book on writing right, but you'd be surprised about how crappy you find yourself in the midst of it all. Sort of like I'm doing right now -- being Wordy McWordstein.]

We fill our papers with words and words and words that have no substance (taken from the example of many of my papers so that I'm not "judging" anyone else), and it shows in this post-college kid.
Say what you want to say and say it! For audiences that have a 30-second attention span, it's important to say what you need to say.

So I'm promoting.
I'm promoting that we, as a 'worded-out' generation, get back to the simplicity of words. Whether in speech or letters or your favorite angst-filled blog...let us say what resides in our hearts.

If you don't like to write, or can't find the time to set aside some...time....then think about how you speak to others. I walk away from so many conversations screaming inside my head, "Why...didn't I just say...THAT!" and by that time, I've already made an ass of myself for spitting out some half-true statement about the economy..or the color green, or fruit flies...or whatever it is people talk about these days.

I'm working on it as well. Learning to wait a second before loading down a person with jumbled jargon that I don't even understand.

We need back the simplicity of our friends like E.B. White with his Underwood typewriter and wire rimmed waste basket...
Or Thoreau, who writes of 'Walden'.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

I am stunned at the beauty of such prose and simplicity.

Instead of saying more, I'll just be quiet and listen...and read, and maybe try to read some more and tell myself that reading is important while reading why writing is important. (:P)

..and maybe, we'll see how that goes.

2009-06-21T19:20:00.000-07:00

to my sister lindsay. a tree by the water.

linden trees by the water.
this is what I have found about your name.
lindsay.
from a tree by the water.

at first, I disregarded it for not having much significance, but I let it sit and images came out of my heart.

I wanted to write something for you...because you're having a baby boy tomorrow who's name will be Cooper William. The first, Cooper from our Grandad, and William, taken from your husband.

Names say a lot of people.
This name, Cooper William says a lot. A strong and gentle name. Though, Cooper means "barrel maker" and William means, "Protector" we can find meaning and humility by such a name. A name that will represent him throughout his life - a name which will always bring us back to Grandad with his sweet and gracious soul.

But the name Lindsay...tree by the water - it springs up so many precious memories - a tree by the water representing for me...an understood beauty.
A tree by the water has the best spot in the world, in my opinion. Kids can climb and jump into a lake or a busy river or poets can write of such beauty and grace from under these limbs of shade.

A tree by the water, with its roots soaking up the goodness of such a life giving element.
Roots...anchored deeply to its life giving source - God and His goodness and grace and Love.

Those, of which you show to give them life - to give them a place of rest.

You're beautiful.
Like a tree by the water.
Offering life.
Giving life.
Naming life.
Nurturing creation.
A sacred gift.

I love you.
I pray for tomorrow,

a Mother Tree.
giving life a name,
and it,
being your own.

To my sister, Lindsay.
A tree by the water.

2009-06-20T14:23:00.000-07:00

why we have no idea.

I don't make much, but I live comfortably and simply with Hannah.
We live in an area that is loud and at times a bit ridiculous.

I looked out the window a couple of days ago to see two men - one with a golf club, the other with a bat - about to beat the shit out of each other. I don't know why - but I watched out the window as they walked away from each other and wondered the things that were going on inside their hearts.
I wondered the costs of intervention.
I have a wife now.
I think about her safety, and I think about taking care of myself so I can be her husband. The actions and communications of non-violence and peacemaking become a little more intricate unless you're both willing to cover a man or woman who is being beat to death with a 7-iron.

I feed myself haunting documentaries.
War in Darfur.
Evil and violence and hunger.

I feed myself pictures of burned bodies, tortured, raped, mutilated.
Why?
Because I have no idea.

I closed my laptop last night after watching, "The Devil Came on Horseback" - about a man reencountering his events as a peacekeeping diplomat with the African Union in Western Sudan. As an ex-marine, he was given only a camera to execute his shots. He felt helpless and witnessed village after village being burned by the Janjaweed [meaning, 'Devil on Horseback'.]

The Janjaweed, in this documentary, confess to killing and burning because the Sudanese government tells them to. Straight up. He wonders why there is not action taking place in this region. Apparently, it has to be considered a genocide before any major relief came to the rescue.

Most of these specifics were happening around 2004. I was just graduating high school and entering into my first year as a freshman at Southern Miss.
I heard the word, "Darfur" a lot. Especially on facebook...but I didn't care. What was some facebook group gonna do to change this? Keep adding members? Perhaps that's why I became one - because it looked like I cared but I didn't necessarily want to go there...especially in my heart.

But...
we don't see these pictures.
we don't see these babies buried in mass graves - we don't hear the stories of women who confess they were "beat up" by the rebels because they are afraid of saying "rape", and what that would do to their presence in the village.

we don't see it.
we don't see it.

Every time I watch a film as convicting as this, I am moved to be a change. To tell others and dream for what my future could look like among places like Darfur or the Congo. How would I get there? I'm married now, it changes a lot of these decisions, but I know it is a place Hannah dreams of as well and has a heart for...but for this change? Because I have a white, american face...I don't see it.

I come off as angry and misunderstanding, but I want to tell you to watch these things. If it gives you nightmares, than just imagine living in the midst of them.

I had dreams last night of war and confusion. I was standing behind men shooting off mortars and missiles. I was afraid and it was loud.

I was afraid.
Because somehow, I was born here, and they were born there.
Because somehow, we get the privilege to have Christian retreats and discussions and book signings. We get the privilege to travel and be the change.

Because somehow, I wasn't born with AIDS, or taught how to dig through trash for rags and plastic bottles and scraps.

These issues have aged me.
I have looked at myself through Chicago and into India and have noticed a drastic change in the way I write and look. Both aging and both a bit conflicted.

what would you do if you found yourself sold into a life of being raped 5-10 times a day? And what about your 12 year old daughter?
my heart is too heavy for the faces I have seen and have yet to see.

what would this cost me and my family.

i have no idea,
but i think claiming that is a start.
at least to me.

Kristen told me to dream, because it gives people hope.
But what happens when dreams become nightmares and scare me into a place of safety.
I have no idea,
but I do know dreams do not always happen when you're sleeping and life becomes open and flows through your heart.

You are aware now and are forced to make decisions.
for you, for her, for the broken ones - the Beloved.

humanity before politics.

i have no idea.
but maybe,

it's a start.

2009-06-18T10:24:00.000-07:00

a psychology of writing.

it is a privilege for me to write words.
mostly knowing not much will come from them,
but at the end of each day, I am thankful they spill from my soul.

facebook notes.
blog entries.
twitter.
status updates..
reflective of odd statements, realizations and a need to be known.
there is humility in these fingertips, if only i could control them
enough to say what I mean.

what do I mean?
great question.

it is important.
almost important as breathing.
it is reflective and it is healthy,
for me.

there is a bit of torment involved in the questions I hear sometimes,
"So, are you a writer...?"
I mostly don't make eye contact with the interrogator and say..."Yeah..no...I'm not. Mostly just silly blogs with messy thoughts. Not much.."
and it goes on - some downplaying truth and fault in my spirit.
I want to say, "Yes, yes I am..."

I won't nearly go as far to say that I could ever be considered to reach this title.
it's name, tormenting me as the thousands in the world compete to have their hearts printed in black ink.

In the deepest places of me,
I need to write.
It is habit and it is healthy.
It is full of processes and slow mornings and good coffee.
It allows me to actualize my situation as though I was my own narrator.

I enjoy words like, prose and narrative and bohemian - though my style is strictly messy with a hint of mediocre at best.

I learned about psychology.
hell, i even got a degree in it.
i loved it and miss learning about the human condition,
and I've come to realize how much the two compliment each other.

I've learned that writing involves quite a bit of self-actualization. [If you're reading the textbooks, it's that top tiny triangle on Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs] - a pyramid that you will see almost every semester as a psych student.

To self actualize myself - there is a great difficulty in going too far here. Self absorbed - image - power. A few words that come to mind.

But more along the lines of, "Where am I in this world?"
"What am I doing and does it even matter?"

yes, it matters. and you matter.
in the words of Momma Traci, "The world needs what your heart has to offer.."

and I want to scream these words at the ones, and myself, who walk away with their head slightly down wondering if anyone listens.

as I know there are billions of people in this world with stories that could break our hearts a million times over. I crave to share their stories. We need their hearts to break ours.

so.
i will continue to write crappy things until I maybe come up with something decent. I will share stories because many of them break my heart.

"So why does writing matter, again?" they ask.
Because of the spirit, I say. Because of the heart. Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship.
-Anne Lamott "Bird by Bird"

2009-06-15T08:38:00.001-07:00

woods.

make me quiet.
they make me understand that nature is epic and ultimately not under my control.
I believe it's one of the only things that humans can't control, unless you consider "control" cutting down and ravaging the beauty of nature.

But, this is not so much about that - though another bag of issues this society has yet to fully deal with..

The trees in Oregon are at times, a bit haunting to me. I feel like they know me deep down - and how worthless and pathetic my strength is - either out or in.
They've been alive a lot longer than I have..after all. I do have much to learn.
Often in the western Oregon landscapes...the trees are wet and laid down with such gorgeous moss. It makes them look old - like they've seen a thing or two in their lives, which granted they have, being so beautifully rooted in the earth.

There is a great peace in this nature.

I've been with others who seek exploration and excitement - but I'm the one who sits at the base of a tree and falls asleep, or writes a few words of how rotting logs turn to dirt..and then grow into something beautiful. maybe.
ha.

that's me.
taking a nap in the tent. scaring away the big birds that steal our marshmellows and granola.
nature is humorous and has the upper hand when it comes to the ones that decide to dwell within its reaches from time to time.

I have learned so much by the stillness.
To be my first quote of the new mewithoutYou album, I will say that "there is a movement in our stillness"

I realize that most of our days are filled with noise.
Whether that be music or people - I am gaining the importance of being still and noticing the movement of my thoughts.

but there in the woods - lies a great stillness - and also a great movement
and in it all, I see God.

and it allows me to live.
to be still.
and to see God.

2009-06-09T15:35:00.000-07:00

why I'm having a hard time writing. [in a sense, what I'm hurting for.]

I wonder sometimes, what there is left to say.

I could shout at people with statistics and overwhelming facts of the hurting world.
It wouldn't change anything...at least not from where I'm sitting.

I could offer another point of view,
but often get shoved back into my seat with the usual fears.

I want to tell people that God loves them fully,
but people tell me I have to tell them that their living lives full of sin.
I know they don't want to hear it -- but apparently my love for them contains a great deal of God's wrath.
I'm sorry.
[But what mighty planks we have in our own eyes!!]

I want to have answers,
but all I get are more questions.
more uncertainty - more distance.

family and friends,
speaking into me that I'm wrong and that the world is sick and that I can't help.

stubborn.
stubborn.
stubborn.
josh you are stubborn.

open your heart.
open your heart.
open it.
let the mystery flow through.

You have NO idea how big God's love is - but you put it in
SUCH
A
SMALL
BOX.
You fit it in between walls and behind closed doors and talk like you know who deserves grace.
You offer it to the rich!
You offer it to those who aren't crazy!

You invite your congregation to bring guns to church to celebrate your rights as American citizens.
You honestly believe Jesus wants us to have guns in church?
come on.

God,
how am I to turn away your sons and daughters?
What gives me the right?
Who am I to know?
I believe you're bigger than shiny pastors and soapbox scripture.

I believe you're big enough to show us scandalous grace...and..

You do.

But some think scandalous grace is heresy.
and put me back in my place.

"You're wrong. We do know the capacity of God's grace and love. See...it says so right here. Close it. End of discussion."

okay.
and I sigh - and my cheeks become wet with tears because we admit to knowing all their is to God's heart - because we don't know anything at all.

We throw around the word 'God' like a household product and sell it and sell it and sell it.
We make it sexy and bring in high profits.
Even demons shutter at the sound, yet we limit God to a T-shirt or a pack of mints.

Oh Great Mystery,
my face is red and warm and wet and in dire need of grace.

because you're bigger than anything...

...I could ever write.

2009-06-03T12:14:00.001-07:00

Love is an Orientation. Elevating my heart.

I was excited to discover our new book had arrived in the mail yesterday.

"Love Is An Orientation" - Elevating the Conversation with the Gay Community by Andrew Marin.

This has sort of been a nagging issue to my soul and by far one of the most controversial topics of modern day Christianity.

I've already read into the foreword and introduction and around page ten, I sort of folded it onto my lap and felt weighed down with sadness. There are already so many tears within these words that led to my own. It wasn't necessarily anything heartbreaking that I read, but my own personal persecution of my brothers and sisters.

I write this also, heavy, because I know so many of my friends and family, etc. find this somewhat appalling and have an understandable misunderstanding of the gay community -- to write about such a sensitive subject is drenched in humility.

I'm still learning - still questioning these pillars of my own faith and what it means to follow Christ and to love my neighbor.

When it is just not enough to 'love the sinner and hate the sin' - because it is then that we have initially pardoned them as actual humans capable of full love.
That's like going up to your dear friend and saying, "Dude, I love you, but I hate that you over-eat, lust and lie....God bless ya!"
The good ole' pick and choose Gospel, I reckon.

I glanced up from these words and my cheeks were wet with the sadness of my own misunderstanding.
How "evangelical" and "born again" are paired with such hateful persecuting things.

I try to allow myself a portion of the day to feel sadness -- to feel the heaviness of the world. Even when I'm far away or next door to the pain, I allow myself to feel it; to carry sadness as a from of personal justice.
It's a shame I have to devote a time of day; I tend to find it when I'm quiet or in some sort of contemplation.

It has been a journey in these past couple of years - serving in Chicago a block away from Halsted and the Boystown area. Having dear friends come out to me and loving them and hurting for their journey through these tough, tough questions.

I'm going to make a firm statement that I don't believe you should judge the gay community unless you are friends with a person that belongs to it and unless you actually listen to their story. And even then, your judgement is delicate and personal - so be careful. These things I tell myself often.
It puts flesh to your misunderstanding. It gives you a person just like you - just another brother or sister that you need to be treating like Jesus.

I'm excited to be on this journey...and to learn about what my heart will do in reaction to the things I read and witness along the way.

peace to you brother and sisters.

2009-06-01T10:22:00.000-07:00

Communication.

I feel the next words you're going to say will break my heart.

Sometimes they do – but in the best way possible. Because I need them to bust me open.

I am so thankful for communication. Even in the smallest ways and thankful that it is not out of a place that seeks violent submission or quiet misunderstanding.
Sometimes we need to figure things out in this moment and sometimes we need to talk for a long time – even as our eyes grow heavy – these words are necessary and we both need them to feel at peace.

“Lay down your weapons…” I tell myself. It sounds easy.
Just put them down.
Listen..
Put them down.

You can see much better when you’re not staring down a scope or clutching to such sharp words.

I think it’s interesting how communicate sounds so close to community…as though we were supposed to be paying attention to that obvious fact the whole time.

I’m a words guy.
I love them – I think about small sentences during the day that would make good conversation…but never actually get around to writing them.

It is my love language.

It is how I best connect with another human being. The biggest mountains in my life can be moved with a few meaningful words.
I’ve devoted much of my reading time this year to the art of forming words for change…internally, socially and artistically. There is so much to learn, so much to express, and so much to dig up when it comes to story.

I’m so intrigued with something as simple as communication. Even in some of the more simple instances, I find our reactions to be huge things. So much comes from reaction – from being defensive to being acceptive. I suppose this can relate to war, as I feel so much of war is miscommunication – it’s a violent reaction to a certain issue.

But there is a war in miscommunication – there is ‘quick to fire’ responses that leave more injured than not.
Sometimes, I get too lost to speak.

Sometimes, the introvert in me just needs to rest for a while before I can pick up heavy words…and at times, even the lighter ones.

I contemplate on communication and what it involves – when my quietness seems to scream “Hear me.” – but doesn’t quite make sense…
because I’m not actually…saying anything.
This, I am learning…
To communicate my heart with another.

Because, I’m a sucker for words…because what you're about to say could break my heart in the best way possible.
One of my favorite definitions of non-violent communication is this:

“To create human connections that empower compassionate giving and receiving.”

To give and receive – this is communication at its finest in my opinion.

We learn to hear the deeper needs of another human: empathy and compassion.
As for me, I’m learning how to be a better listener. I’m learning how to better speak into others and offer that empathy and compassion.

I’m learning to lay down my weapons.

And in the words of Jonezetta.
“Communicate.”

2009-05-26T19:49:00.000-07:00

lattes and miller high life.

One can decently discover the dichotomy of living in Portland, OR.
Though there is great gentrification, the lines of african americans/caucasians/hispanic/refugees are visible.

With these lines of separation come the usual:
Here, where Hannah and I live consists of more fried chicken restaurants and run down convenient stores. (Actually, a great place for me..hah.) But it's as if I'm living in a giant sociology experiment.
Everything is louder here - no one talks, but everyone..talks loud. It's so funny, but can get a little annoying if you're not used to it. It's where we need to be - this I know, but is so intriguing as we read in books about community and our neighbors.

We read about moving into the "forgotten places of empire" - where there are more liquor stores and schools are struggling to pay their teachers, more or less keep them for a year.

Under these roofs, are deeply precious children.
They crave attention, love and affirmation - such very important things.

These brothers and sisters are pushed to the edges, but when the "edges" are considered "cool" - they lose their home again, further being pushed to the fringes of empire. Gentrification - tsk.tsk.

I also work in the Pearl. A sweet little "gem" of a district in NE Portland. If you've been there..then you know. It's shiny and sweet and friendly. It's suave, rich and persuading.
I catch myself saying to Hannah, "It's really nice here..." - She agrees and we think about where we have decided to live - Off Rosa Park and MLK Jr. - A place that our souls rest in loud stereos and fights across streets and walls. But we have also come to learn so much from the laughter and community of our home.

I now understand when christian hipsters (yes, much like myself..) ask what they need to do when husband/wife decide to live in the poorer areas of their city and wonder when the "community" will start -- they hear, "Well, if you want community, work on your marriage" or, "Oh, just give it another 10 or 11 years.." (as so humorously spoken from Dr. Perkins..)
I understand this now because we hear the anger coming from other homes - neighbors hear - the community hears. I hope that our laughter and conversations become what builds community. That is good for now. Laughter and conversation.

I just feel if you know your neighbors work to be peaceful in their home, they crave to make wherever they live a somewhat peaceful environment.

So you choose, lattes or miller high life - which one of our neighbors Sam, buys a six-pack of about every six or so hours from across the street.

I serve the rich.
But, I live among the poorer friends of this city.

It is a dichotomy that I step in and out of daily. Most days, it's hard to budge - other days I welcome the change of scenery. I don't know when little kids started getting their own desserts and not sharing with their parents - or how people afford buying expensive lattes and pastries every morning. I guess it all depends on the need. [Which I'm guilty of from time to time..]

I help feed their habit.
I watch people clean up their dog's shit, but could care less about smiling to their neighbor.

I don't think it will ever matter if I understand - but what I do know and strive to learn is that peace begins within the walls of these homes. If you want to create community among your neighbors...simply be a peaceful presence among them - love your wife. love your husband. love your children.

i'm young; idealistic; naive - so please, know that I'm writing with not too much life experience married/nor do I have kids. But these are bits and pieces I'm learning from others, and they work pretty okay for me.

As for me...between lattes and miller high life,

I could go for a little of both. :)

2009-05-23T14:18:00.000-07:00

[Just to fore-mention, these words are kind of heavy to me - and I've spent a lot of time with them, trying to figure out what they mean in my life. These are pretty sensitive memories for me still and know that I don't dwell on death, but seek to understand the realities of it for so many.]

There is something in dying that haunts me. I crave to figure out what about it haunts others - our nation - and what makes it so scary. [But, if you are not phased by these thoughts, than no worries, it's all good.]

I remember as a younger guy, I had a couple of friends in school show me videos of these "faces of death" - basically people dying in terribly disturbing ways. Sometimes, these images still haunt me. I don't know why I watched them -- I was a kid who thought violence was like the movies. Death was quick and exciting and dramatic; I never saw the families of these characters weep in sadness, but rejoice that the "evil" had been defeated...or perhaps triumphed...depending on what the story was...

But not these. People screamed...and cried..and looked terrified.

I almost threw up.
These images still make my stomach cringe.

(Great way to start up a depressing piece, right?)

Well, there is a bit of redemption, perhaps a little reconciliation between me and death.
I don't always expect that I'll die or die violently, but it's a violent world. People kill without thinking and just because we believe in a good God does not exempt us from the violence of humanity.

I wrote a while back...while in India about my time in Kalighat. I don't care to spend all my time talking about India, because I realize it's not as real to others - but it's very real to me, and has given me insight to lots of life things. some heartbreaking. My thoughts have been coming to this experience lately, and realizing the effects it still has on me.

I was drenched in a terrible sadness, and I feel that because the whole room seemed to bend in towards this sacred, peaceful and sad time.
They had brought in this man from the streets. I was busy handing out medicine or emptying urinals or emptying salt and pepper packages. Whatever it is you do at Momma T's, hah...

I tried to act busy. Pacing back and forth by the man who was surrounded by a few long term volunteers and an Italian doctor [who smoked a lot of cigarettes].
I tried not to act too mesmerized by this. After all, these things are so very hidden in our culture. Death is private and delicate and behind many doors and walls.

This..on the other hand was in front of me - while the Sisters were conversing in the next room because you see, death is always sad. But I feel it has a lesser sting to those who see it so often [at least as much as the Sisters do]. Or at least to those who understand that suffering is over - and that they have died with a bit of love and perhaps dignity. But really, I don't know anything.

I sat near the entrance finally, and bowed my head in some sort of desperate prayer. I didn't know the Rosary, as others were praying - so I guess I said my own kind...
When I looked up, the doctor had pulled the wool blanket over the man after checking his heart with his stethoscope.

I squeezed my lips together - kind of like you do before you cry..
because..I was about to cry. I needed a way to dissolve into that moment.

I sat on an empty bed facing the wall and cried - which was hard for me to do India...more or less Kalighat. All this sadness..this heaviness came out of watery eyes. I looked up at the painting of Jesus; the scars; this sacred moment of sharing in Christ's suffering.
Realizing that I was sitting among these wounds; this broken body; His broken body.

I am still learning from death. Henri Nouwen described death as, "A final act of love with God".
You also see in India the parades on the streets - painted bodies adorned with flowers and perfumes and fine clothing.

Or the times when stumbling upon 'cremation ghats' near the river - my first introduction to India's openness to all the acts of humanity. Life. Death. Grieving. Celebration.

The Great Mystery. What happens when we die. What does it feel like...or when will it be? In the recesses of our minds - we seek Heaven..whatever it looks like..and however it feels...or will I feel nervous. The eternal community--with the Beloved.

I find peace in that.
Not knowing when it will happen...I am learning to find peace in that.

I am learning to escape the American ways of seeing death as a disease, but just as birth - as we were not worried with being born, nor worrying about death - all part of this great Mystery...of our souls in tune with Creation and Creator.

India,
Thankyou for teaching me the value of life.

2009-05-17T12:24:00.000-07:00

deeply.

I feel things deeply.
this sunday morning, I shy away from things--because I've always been a bit shy, but more quiet than shy. also because it's hard for me.

it's hard for me to dive into new churches. for some reason, I like to have an idea of what it's like before I plant myself among a congregation--I did it a lot in college, but those were mostly baptist churches...and I felt I could always feel safe and "comfortable" among one the latter rows...critiquing the music and people, or whether or not I could actually grow.

sometimes I critique too much. okay. a lot.
I sat this morning in a deep contemplation about God, church and scripture. I thought about what it means for me. I wonder why I grow a bit uncomfortable in a church setting that's not familiar, though I feel is understandable. I wonder why I feel uncomfortable among His body of followers. I shouldn't be...right?

I know I will be accepted--but I feel deeply, that I need more than a 'pre-acception'. I know the church rules, how everyone is overwhelmed with thanks that you decided to visit their church --asking that you'd stay in the congregation for a while...perhaps a decade or two.

But, this is difficult for me.
I find myself craving contemplation. quiet.
Perhaps I should become a Quaker. :)

Or maybe I'm just in a different season.
A season of thinking where I don't need to take church lightly, but with a much more serious tone of forming community with the Beloved, whether that's within or outside the walls--because I once persecuted family members who never went to church -- only to discover years later that you can learn more about God from the streets than you could a comfortable/uncomfortable plush pew that was dedicated by Ray and Faylene Walker (made up name, don't worry.)

I watched "Religulous" with Hannah last night, only to discover that it's actually a really good documentary. (It's rated R mind you, for good reason..) --but it paints a pretty accurate picture of religious fanaticism. Of course, like most of these "religion-bashing" films, they find the craziest fanatics who answer without thinking or who have the scriptures interpreted to their own benefit. (perhaps like most of us do..)

One preacher claimed that he had nice things because Jesus was a rich man. "The people want me to look good.."[referring to his congregation.]
Maybe this is true..maybe the congregation wants him to have nice things...but as I'm saying, this is not for me. heh.

Bill Maher, the guy throughout the film --asks people questions about their views from many walks of faith and church history. He asks questions in a way that most are left answering in a bit of confusion and frustration.
He asks how we can believe in a giant fish swallowing a man whole...or a rod that turns into a snake...and all of the stories we heard as children - Maher paints it in comedy--making it seem ridiculous. But it allows me to turn inside myself and ask the same questions.
Because usually, all I have is questions. Because usually, I say, "hmm..I don't know.."
It's obvious there is a bit of difference in New and Old Testament.

I spent the morning looking at some red letters - struggling. questioning.
I found Jesus telling His followers some hard..hard things. The cost of following Jesus. Not being able to care for your father as he is getting old - or leaving your family without saying goodbye. (most of these are in reference to Luke 9:57-62) Meaning, if you are going to follow Jesus, you have to leave everything that you cling to, and follow Him. (You know the scripture..)

I found Jesus healing and having His followers heal and cast out demons - these radical acts that I have never personally witnessed.
Just know I'm not saying they don't happen, because I've heard and seen many stories - perhaps I just lack very heavily in faith or experience. Most of the time...people die. Most of the time, people stay blind or deaf - or live their whole lives in mental institutes clawing at a wall.

these are realities for me.

But I come back to this.
Jesus is a reality to me, because I see the hope that lives within my brothers and sisters.
Because I believe in stories.
Because I believe in having faith, and the strength it gives people.
Because I may not know much about theology or greek or historical context, but I know that God listens.
Because this world is just too intricate to not have a creator. Someone with imagination. Someone with the image of woman and man. Father and Mother. Brother and Sister.
Because we live on community and learn the most in our brokenness.

I am convinced that we each hold a picture of God in our hearts - and I believe that's okay, because we live in Mother God and Father God. We live in hope and in faith. Because we believe in a radical morality - that being a servant, means being a servant of all.
That love, is dying for your sister and brother.

Because...I believe in Love. Though I will not know it's capacity, I believe in forgiveness, because it is infinite.

Because I look outside of this window and see a beautiful creation - some planted by God's hands, others planted by His creation.

sometimes...
I can't think about God without tearing up.

and that's real to me.

2009-05-06T14:17:00.000-07:00

What I’m Learning from Dorothy Day

I had read bits and pieces of her life through other works - who she was and who she is helping others become through her story.

Dorothy Day was the founder of the Catholic Workers Movement, along with “co-founder/conspirator” Peter Maurin.
Peter had led an interesting life himself, traveling from his birthplace in France, to Canada and eventually into the shared living room of Dorothy and her family. Peter was a man who lived in intentional and relational poverty and was inspired greatly by the writings and prayers of St. Francis.

“Entertaining Angels” is a movie about her life – and though the title is a bit soft for the heaviness she carries, it was an important part of Dorothy’s life, as she grew closer to God’s heart for the poor. Day didn’t always support the work of Christians and saw them as hypocritical. It was only seeing the Church care for the poor that she began to walk through her own “spiritual awakening”.

Day was a writer and was published in various “socio-radical” newspapers and as she founded the CWM, she along with others published, “The Catholic Worker”.

It was also in writing that Day discovered that her ‘radical words’ could not be substituted for ‘radical action.’
This is not to say that her stories weren’t important, but I believe she grew to an understanding that it wasn’t fulfilling her restless heart and that her writing wasn’t feeding the hungry, though it was calling attention that people were starving and dying on the streets.

This is important to me because I love to write. I love to process the world, but it is no good for me to write if I’m not…doing. Maybe someday, something will come from this advocacy, but as important as words are in a movement, the word “movement” itself requires us to…move.

One thing, out of many things I love about Dorothy is that she made the church uncomfortable.
She made the church ask hard and conflicting questions. “What are we to do with you, Dorothy? You can’t tag your work with “Catholic” because we can’t be included in all this ruckus you’re stirring up…” [This was basically the gist of that conversation and always a bit contradictory to the Gospel of Christ.]

There were a couple of scenes in this film that particularly made my breathing a bit irregular and my heart seem to beat beyond its capacity as it tends to do from time to time. I do love theatre because of its ability to reenact story that causes our bodies to react from emotion.

In one scene, Day had learned of a friend who had committed suicide in the bathroom of their house of hospitality.
Enraged and discouraged from a string of hurtful accusations, Dorothy stormed into the church and stood at the bottom of the cross and screamed in tears at the pierced body of Christ,

“Where are you!?
I don’t see you!”
“Is this what you want me to do!?
You’re ugly…and you smell!
Nobody wants you!”
How…can anyone love you!?”

And it was with this last statement that I lost it.

In screaming at the broken body of Christ, she was screaming at the poor – at the unlovable and at the stench and site of the ones nobody else wants to love.

We are the symbols of Christ’s broken body.

We hurt and bleed.

We are vulnerable to the elements of nature and the human condition.
Seeing Dorothy screaming at Christ’s body aches inside of me.

It aches because it is the poor that has led me to God’s heart again.
It is through the stench and strain, the confusion and lies, and the beauty of a full belly and heart that I find Jesus in the faces of the Poor.

Because…sometimes it is me who wants to scream those words.

But instead I hear these words and hold back tears, as Day spoke into the broken ones,

“No.
You’re beautiful.
I see light in you.
I love you.

I love you.”

Thankyou, Ms. Day.
Servant of God.

"True love is delicate and kind, full of gentle perception and understanding, full of beauty and grace, full of joy unutterable.
There should be some flavor of this in all our love for others.
We are all one. We are one flesh in the Mystical Body as man and woman are said to be one flesh in marriage.
With such a love one would see all things new; we would begin to see people as they really are, as God sees them."
-Dorothy Day

2009-04-30T14:25:00.000-07:00

what am i to do.

with these hands.
with his hands.
with your hands.

crippled.
clutching to his last cigarette;
with bent knuckles on this chilly night.

bad habits,
few teeth,
sweet tooth. literally.

we laugh and hug,
leftover sandwiches and cold soda.

a tied knot upon your head
what stories lie there if I could only see them as truth;
but who am I to judge you...Beloved?
Child. Father. Man.
Homeless. Brother. Liar. Prophet. Lover.

conflicted with what to do with you.
you're lying. you're lying. you're lying.
but here's 20 bucks.

God knows that I want the best for Him.
Dignity. Respect. A full belly. A bit of comfort.
listening. hoping. understanding.
shaking my head.

I help tie your shoe;
and tear up and realize how undignifying that must be
to not be able to tie your own shoe; but you don't mind
because it needs to be tied.

I sit to process God's heart.
for humanity; for my wife. for me.
for the art that is in the trees gracing the moon and vice versa.

I process God's heart for the Poor.
saints and sinners alike - all in the rhythm of the Spirit;
hard times. come again no more.

you tell me how hard it is to smell your own shit,
because you have a hard time finding a place to go.
who is to let in this poor old soul.
your own stench. you tell me how it smells worse than an animal.
I moan as I try to lean into your suffering.

oh, wouldn't life be easier if I didn't care.
you reap what you sow, dear brother.
and when I collapse at your feet,
your suffering in strong through my nostrils.

constant questioning. your cardboard sign.
the crumbs upon my own shirt.
i have to eat to. but i can offer small things.

conversation. a warm seat. a bathroom and a warm meal.
respect. empathy. laughter. hugs. story. strawberries and vanilla coke.

hands on the plow;
digging up earth where I lay my head.

it's plantin' time.

2009-04-27T00:09:00.000-07:00

:)

(courtesy of Mr. Bryan Rupp)

2009-04-23T23:26:00.000-07:00

hands - the importance of your story

Hands.

You can tell a lot by them.

They offer grace, and stories.
They make our food and speak a language.

They ask for hands during ceremonies; the marrying kinds, usually. The kind that binds two people into one; the symbolism makes my eyes water: forever a friend. Choosing oneness. Choosing companionship. A committed love; what is love without commitment and the other way around? I feel like love of any kind contains some sort of commitment.
I shook a hand a few days ago that made me weep.

I wept for sadness; even on my wedding day, I cried for his loss, of war and blood mixed with the beauty of the moment about to be shared.

I wept because he was an innocent child; I wept because they are all innocent children.

They are babies; they are the Beloved.
I wept in the grieving process. Sometimes I believe my tears are a form of justice.

Some of us are the grievers of the world. Whenever we can, and whenever we feel safe, we take the pain we see in others eyes and with their heavy hearts, sit at the edge of our beds and place our hands over our faces.
We moan for the loss of innocence, for the new life they are gaining, and for their new sense of being a son or daughter.
In a sense, many of us are refugees; we long for our place in a community and feel a sense of beauty and goodness when family and friends are in one place.

I believe it’s heaven.

To have those you love all in one place. It makes sense and it always makes for a good time. People tend to forget about themselves in the process and enjoy their fellow Beloved.

I use my hands to share the experiences I gain and to maybe write some words of significance, but it’s not worth it to write words for the sake of words. My hands process my heart. Sometimes, well, most of the time it’s not easy to spit out what I want to say.

I don’t really know where I’m heading with all this, only to say that our hands are capable of beautiful and terrible things. Our hands can tell people a lot. We can use them to make someone else feel less, or pull them up when they reach. It is the simple gestures in which love pours out.

I don’t know.

Whoever is out there, know that your story is important.

Know that I carry your heaviness…your violent dreams…your interrupted sleep.
Your hands tell a story I’ll never be able to paint – but I will feel your sadness because someone needs to, because we don’t mourn like we used to.
I find joy in the lack of numbness, though it causes me to feel more heavily – where there is love, there is commitment. A wise woman I know says, “to love is to suffer” - - there is beauty in this, I know that much is true.
For our new friend Dennis, our friend we helped to the disability office today:

Your story is important.