I'll answer that question for you- my friend RoseAnne Coleman, er, Dr. RoseAnne Coleman, writer, speaker, & teacher is up and blogging, here. It would do you well to read her posts, and her book, The Stories I Keep. She has much to offer you, the reader. I know you'll appreciate her wit and wisdom, wrought by the caldron of God's mercies, new to her each day.
ENJOY!!!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Advice
I think of the word advice as intrusive, for some reason; or, maybe it is the doing of it that seems so, not the word itself. Yet, its sound, advice has a sharp edge to it, like a sword's blade. Sometimes, advice is most disruptive when it is not sought. I must say I'm practiced at giving it prematurely, but that is the subject of another essay, for another time.
Last night, friend RoseAnne Coleman, asked fellow diners and celebrants if we might ponder and share what advice we'd impart up to this point of our lives lived. I thought for a moment, and offered this:
You can run, but you cannot hide.
Someone far wiser than I said it before me. For much of my life, off and on, I lived by the maxim that if one stays busy, attendant to the task at hand, or given to the destruction inherent in a life spent running without rest, one might succeed in hiding. Our good God has proved me wrong by his gentle mercy over and over. One of the best renderings of the idea is captured in
David's Psalm 139: 7-12:
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Or where shall I flee from your presence?
If ascend to heaven, you are there!
If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
If I take the wings of the morning,
and dwell in the utter most parts of the sea,
even there, your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
If I say surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light about me be night,
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is bright as the day
for darkness is as light with you.
The definition of advice (www.dictionary.com)
includes the word visage: the face of a person; countenance.
The sobering fact is plain: there is no place to hide from God. Because of his great love, in Christ's intercession, His face is toward you-always.
May I seek his advice, though it slay me, he is always and only good.
Last night, friend RoseAnne Coleman, asked fellow diners and celebrants if we might ponder and share what advice we'd impart up to this point of our lives lived. I thought for a moment, and offered this:
You can run, but you cannot hide.
Someone far wiser than I said it before me. For much of my life, off and on, I lived by the maxim that if one stays busy, attendant to the task at hand, or given to the destruction inherent in a life spent running without rest, one might succeed in hiding. Our good God has proved me wrong by his gentle mercy over and over. One of the best renderings of the idea is captured in
David's Psalm 139: 7-12:
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Or where shall I flee from your presence?
If ascend to heaven, you are there!
If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
If I take the wings of the morning,
and dwell in the utter most parts of the sea,
even there, your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
If I say surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light about me be night,
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is bright as the day
for darkness is as light with you.
The definition of advice (www.dictionary.com)
includes the word visage: the face of a person; countenance.
The sobering fact is plain: there is no place to hide from God. Because of his great love, in Christ's intercession, His face is toward you-always.
May I seek his advice, though it slay me, he is always and only good.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Peace and Dignity
Over a year ago, Jerome Sidney Barrett was indicted for the murder of Marcia Trimble. Just last Saturday, a jury of his peers convicted him of the crime of second degree murder in two counts. He'll likely spend the rest of his life in prison. Oh there'll be appeals, there'll probably be petitions for post-conviction relief. The lawyers will wrangle about the issues and posture to the judges, as with every case. I listened to most of the trial, and relived a great portion of the winter of my 12th year. Much came undone. Anguish surfaced. Fear stirred. After the verdict was rendered, Marcia's mother spoke to the media. Standing in the wake of three decades of swirling horror and grief, she literally sighed relief. Much of the time, a sigh of relief is bland poetry. For Virginia Trimble Ritter, last Saturday, it was reality. A well-meaning reporter asked her if, now, at the conclusion of the trial, she might have closure. Her response was gracious. She said something like this:
I think I'll have to see what Mr. Webster says about closure, I don't think I know what that word means. But I can say this. Today, I'm on the other side of pain.
Waiting thirty-four years for a killer to be found and brought to justice will leave a woman wanting. It'll slice you up and spit you out. Mrs. Trimble-Ritter has lived to tell. She has endured the dark nights, the fierce days, and attacks of hopelessness. At the end of this leg of the journey, Marcia's death still looms, and I'm sure it does in a new way for Mrs. Trimble-Ritter.
One of the details I appreciate about indictments in Tennessee, is the verbiage that follows each allegation. At the conclusion of every count of every indictment, prior to the District Attorney General's signature is the phrase that prompted my writing today:
in violation of T.C.A. 39-13-.....and against the peace and dignity of the State of Tennessee.
At every trial the indictment is read into the record, and those words jangle in the mind of a jury; against the peace and dignity. In the Barrett trial, I was fortunate to hear colleague Katrin Miller read the indictment. I focused on those words through-out the trial and at the end felt a curious peace, not so much afforded by the State, or to the State, but rather that peace that passes understanding, the contentment that comes from a long journey's endurance.
May Virginia Trimble-Ritter have attained some peace & dignity. She has shared hers well. Even in the revisiting of great sadness, I pray she be sustained. One day, all of what was lost will be restored to her, to Marcia, to us.
Sola Deo Gloria.
I think I'll have to see what Mr. Webster says about closure, I don't think I know what that word means. But I can say this. Today, I'm on the other side of pain.
Waiting thirty-four years for a killer to be found and brought to justice will leave a woman wanting. It'll slice you up and spit you out. Mrs. Trimble-Ritter has lived to tell. She has endured the dark nights, the fierce days, and attacks of hopelessness. At the end of this leg of the journey, Marcia's death still looms, and I'm sure it does in a new way for Mrs. Trimble-Ritter.
One of the details I appreciate about indictments in Tennessee, is the verbiage that follows each allegation. At the conclusion of every count of every indictment, prior to the District Attorney General's signature is the phrase that prompted my writing today:
in violation of T.C.A. 39-13-.....and against the peace and dignity of the State of Tennessee.
At every trial the indictment is read into the record, and those words jangle in the mind of a jury; against the peace and dignity. In the Barrett trial, I was fortunate to hear colleague Katrin Miller read the indictment. I focused on those words through-out the trial and at the end felt a curious peace, not so much afforded by the State, or to the State, but rather that peace that passes understanding, the contentment that comes from a long journey's endurance.
May Virginia Trimble-Ritter have attained some peace & dignity. She has shared hers well. Even in the revisiting of great sadness, I pray she be sustained. One day, all of what was lost will be restored to her, to Marcia, to us.
Sola Deo Gloria.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
School Days
This post is for the parents and teachers. Kids can read it too. G-rated. I promise. But primarily I'm thinking of the adults who are either breathing a sigh of sweet and/or anxious relief that this leg of the journey is nearly over. It seems like just yesterday that little junior was born...how can this be that my eldest child is graduating from high school? Or, how is it that the first year of teaching at this new school is almost behind me..?
It is all in the blink of an eye, I suppose, because that is the nature of time, it is, at its core temporal. And, the good news for you is this, in eternity, there will be no tests, no hurdles of achievement or comparing one's child to another, no competition. As you pack up the things of your child, or your classroom, and you begin to ponder the stress of next year, take five. Stop a minute, if only in your mind and submit to the everlasting truth for which we wait, the very reason for which education was lauded in the first place: Jesus.
Christ has already won the prize, and there, in heaven with him, we will be about the business of worship. Always. Forever. Amen.
It is all in the blink of an eye, I suppose, because that is the nature of time, it is, at its core temporal. And, the good news for you is this, in eternity, there will be no tests, no hurdles of achievement or comparing one's child to another, no competition. As you pack up the things of your child, or your classroom, and you begin to ponder the stress of next year, take five. Stop a minute, if only in your mind and submit to the everlasting truth for which we wait, the very reason for which education was lauded in the first place: Jesus.
Christ has already won the prize, and there, in heaven with him, we will be about the business of worship. Always. Forever. Amen.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Confession
Cowardice and pride are at the root of what stalls me from living out my salvation with fear and trembling. Ugly sin to be sure, but thanks be to God, I have an advocate of the utmost courage and true humility. Fall now at the feet of him who saves. God's peace be with you friends, [for that peace is the only peace which will do].
Go this rain-soaked day and do what it is you do: write, counsel, argue, serve, teach, instruct, rest, live, and die......well, with courage.
Go this rain-soaked day and do what it is you do: write, counsel, argue, serve, teach, instruct, rest, live, and die......well, with courage.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Back in the Swim
Sigh.
It's hard to convey how deep that opening sigh is. Please use your imagination(s) This past Saturday, I planned to attend a writing workshop. As is usually the case, when I even stop to think about prattling on in writing, I get the jitters-picture multiple sighs as manifest in the muscles of your heart. I hemmed. I hawed. Thanks be to God, I went.
So, I decided to start posting here again. There's an awkwardness to the first plunge. Or should I say re-plunge? At the workshop, I wrote a verse about the swim class in which I was enrolled-as an infant. Yep. An infant. With apologies to Saint Paul and the Holy Spirit of God, when I was a child, I swam as a child, now that I am older, I still swim as a child.
In the interim- this long delay between posts, I waited on the side of the pool. I waited for the desire to stop writing. It never really took, but for a time, I had no words. There was the tradition of the Lenten season-how convenient for a law-keeper! So I waited longer.
For those of you waiting on God, keep waiting-listening. And when the time comes, jump in, the water's fine.
Sola Deo Gloria.
It's hard to convey how deep that opening sigh is. Please use your imagination(s) This past Saturday, I planned to attend a writing workshop. As is usually the case, when I even stop to think about prattling on in writing, I get the jitters-picture multiple sighs as manifest in the muscles of your heart. I hemmed. I hawed. Thanks be to God, I went.
So, I decided to start posting here again. There's an awkwardness to the first plunge. Or should I say re-plunge? At the workshop, I wrote a verse about the swim class in which I was enrolled-as an infant. Yep. An infant. With apologies to Saint Paul and the Holy Spirit of God, when I was a child, I swam as a child, now that I am older, I still swim as a child.
In the interim- this long delay between posts, I waited on the side of the pool. I waited for the desire to stop writing. It never really took, but for a time, I had no words. There was the tradition of the Lenten season-how convenient for a law-keeper! So I waited longer.
For those of you waiting on God, keep waiting-listening. And when the time comes, jump in, the water's fine.
Sola Deo Gloria.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Mysterious
William Cowper was a poet and a hymn writer who lived a desperate life, oft challenged by despair. In fact, so deep was his darkness that he attempted suicide many times. While a patient in a mental hospital, he was in the care of a compassionate soul who lead him to Christ.
It is said that even after his conversion, Cowper suffered greatly. Yet he clung to the one who saves and wrote many poems and hymns in testament to his Savior. Surely it must have occurred to Cowper that though he was a new creature in Christ, his life was, from time, to time, still a troubled one. Perhaps that what he pondered when he wrote this hymn:
God Moves in a Mysterious Way
1 God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.
2 Deep in unfathomable mines of never-failing skill
He treasures up his bright designs, and works His sovereign will.
3 Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break in blessings on your head.
4 Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
5 His purposes will ripen fast, unfolding ev'ry hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flow'r.
6 Blind unbelief is sure to err, and scan His work in vain.
God is his own interpreter, and He will make it plain.
This hymn was sung today at the church I visited. As we sang verse four, I literally laughed out loud. Not a guffaw laugh, but an epiphanous giggle. I have long judged the Lord by my feeble sense of reality. I've given him what for and railed at him because of my own circumstance. Perhaps it is the life-long issue with which I wrestle, and by which I grow into sweeter communion with the God who is mysterious, yet faithful. For though I struggle and strive with him and his purposes, he mercifully tends to me by his infinite grace.
Sola Deo Gloria!
It is said that even after his conversion, Cowper suffered greatly. Yet he clung to the one who saves and wrote many poems and hymns in testament to his Savior. Surely it must have occurred to Cowper that though he was a new creature in Christ, his life was, from time, to time, still a troubled one. Perhaps that what he pondered when he wrote this hymn:
God Moves in a Mysterious Way
1 God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.
2 Deep in unfathomable mines of never-failing skill
He treasures up his bright designs, and works His sovereign will.
3 Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break in blessings on your head.
4 Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
5 His purposes will ripen fast, unfolding ev'ry hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flow'r.
6 Blind unbelief is sure to err, and scan His work in vain.
God is his own interpreter, and He will make it plain.
This hymn was sung today at the church I visited. As we sang verse four, I literally laughed out loud. Not a guffaw laugh, but an epiphanous giggle. I have long judged the Lord by my feeble sense of reality. I've given him what for and railed at him because of my own circumstance. Perhaps it is the life-long issue with which I wrestle, and by which I grow into sweeter communion with the God who is mysterious, yet faithful. For though I struggle and strive with him and his purposes, he mercifully tends to me by his infinite grace.
Sola Deo Gloria!
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Dad and Dylan
It is no small wonder I am given to music. I grew up listening to my Dad sing a lot. He is not a trained or professional singer but he could have been. He loved then, and loves still, a good song. I mentioned Dad's penchant for song in this, the first post of this blog, May 22nd, 2008. Here's the relevant excerpt:
I remember my dad holding his hymnal out and lowering it a bit so I could see and sing along; my dad's deep baritone voice fully engaging the melody. Every so often, dad would start singing the harmony, and off I'd go, on the same trail, sometimes making the note, sometimes not, but seldom, if ever, staying on the melody. He'd gaze over his glasses, quizzical that I'd not harmonized. I wanted to sing with him, to go with him on that wild adventure of hymn singing!
Even though my dad's devotion to hymn singing is a big part of his repertoire, he is fond of popular tunes too. Cole Porter, Gershwin, Rodgers and Hart, all the greats. Vocalists like Frank Sinatra and Perry Como are two of his favorites. Being a rowdy "Deke"in college, he is prone to start wailing what I call bar tunes or drinking songs every now and again. Songs like Columbus Stockade Blues, for instance.
Originating in the 1920's the song immortalizes a Columbus Georgia jail that housed petty criminals of every stripe-drunks, thieves, and other 'ne'er do wells'.
If you listen close you can hear the plaintive lament of the narrator reverberating off brick walls of the jail :
Way way down, in Columbus Georgia,
Lord done turned his back on me,
Way way down in Columbus Stockade,
wanna be back in Tennessee..
Go and and leave me if you wish to,
never let me change your mind,
if in your heart, you love another,
leave me little darlin' I don't mind
leave me little darlin' I don't mind.
Imagine what delight I had to find that Bob Dylan has affinity for this particular tune too! In reading the first installment of Dylan's memoir, Chronicles, Columbus Stockade Blues is mentioned as a song he favored and sang early in his folk career.
But to really hear this song, you ought to hear my daddy sing it.
His a capella rendition is so blue it'll make you want to weep. Dylan is a poet and a king of story, but he could learn a thing or two from Dad.
I remember my dad holding his hymnal out and lowering it a bit so I could see and sing along; my dad's deep baritone voice fully engaging the melody. Every so often, dad would start singing the harmony, and off I'd go, on the same trail, sometimes making the note, sometimes not, but seldom, if ever, staying on the melody. He'd gaze over his glasses, quizzical that I'd not harmonized. I wanted to sing with him, to go with him on that wild adventure of hymn singing!
Even though my dad's devotion to hymn singing is a big part of his repertoire, he is fond of popular tunes too. Cole Porter, Gershwin, Rodgers and Hart, all the greats. Vocalists like Frank Sinatra and Perry Como are two of his favorites. Being a rowdy "Deke"in college, he is prone to start wailing what I call bar tunes or drinking songs every now and again. Songs like Columbus Stockade Blues, for instance.
Originating in the 1920's the song immortalizes a Columbus Georgia jail that housed petty criminals of every stripe-drunks, thieves, and other 'ne'er do wells'.
If you listen close you can hear the plaintive lament of the narrator reverberating off brick walls of the jail :
Way way down, in Columbus Georgia,
Lord done turned his back on me,
Way way down in Columbus Stockade,
wanna be back in Tennessee..
Go and and leave me if you wish to,
never let me change your mind,
if in your heart, you love another,
leave me little darlin' I don't mind
leave me little darlin' I don't mind.
Imagine what delight I had to find that Bob Dylan has affinity for this particular tune too! In reading the first installment of Dylan's memoir, Chronicles, Columbus Stockade Blues is mentioned as a song he favored and sang early in his folk career.
But to really hear this song, you ought to hear my daddy sing it.
His a capella rendition is so blue it'll make you want to weep. Dylan is a poet and a king of story, but he could learn a thing or two from Dad.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Wallace Mercer R.I.P.
I noticed the other day a fellow blogger described my blog penned under the name Wallace Mercer as pseudonymical serenity. That alone gives me pause for what I'm about to do. Many of you already know me by my real name. Humor me while I entertain the fantasy that the word 'many' could mean there are thousands of readers out there. Whether I have a few or many readers, I've reached a decision to begin prattling on under the name given me by my earthly father and mother: Karen Ann Fentress.
In taking this action, I put to rest this fine name, Wallace Mercer; One taken so I could speak under a cloak. It is with a profound sense of gratitude that I release this veil. His name, conjured some five years ago by me, is actually a very real person. Wallace Mercer was, according to Wikkipedia, the chairman of the Scottish football club, the Hearts of Edinburgh from 1981-1994. He is best remembered for the controversial merger he attempted of the two rival teams in Edinburgh, the Hearts and Hibs. One need not be an expert in football or business to know that pushing for a joinder of enemies, whether for simple financial gain, or for the purpose of eternal good can make for some nasty conflict. That was the case for the real Wallace Mercer. His death in 2006 was was just prior to a match between the Hearts and Hibs. Some fans, still angered by his audacious attempt to merge the clubs, shouted disrespectfully during a moment of silence held in Mercer's honor. Presumably, it was both teams' fans that yelled during the silence. It usually comes down to that.
I do not know this real man. I know nothing about his virtue or lack thereof. Because I think this story has meaning, I won't pretend the real Wallace Mercer was someone to esteem. What I do know, is the name I chose for my veil is one I'm glad to have used. I chose Wallace because of Wallace Stevens, the complicated insurance executive/lawyer turned poet. I chose Mercer because it hints at the word mercy-a quality of God's I scarcely apprehend, yet for which I am exceedingly grateful.
Wallace Stevens is not a poet I read with regularity, but I fancy myself as like him, a bit. I do practice law. I tend to be a bit verbose, as poets can be. And Mercer, or mercy. I hesitate to even speak on the topic. Mercy and grace are words that, from time to time, are used interchangeably. The distinction is not readily apparent. The words of Rolfe Barnard clarify the difference for me:
Mercy is God's favour that holds back from us what we deserve.
Grace is God's favour that gives us what we do not deserve.-Rolfe Barnard
Perhaps it can be said that mercy is the greatest of the qualities of God. I've said it before here, on this blog, because of God's just wrath, you and I deserve death, the punishment for sin is simple and clear. But Jesus took our place. In him alone can we experience the true grace of the Father. I said I hesitate to even speak of mercy- in doing so, it seems to me, mercy is me centered-concentrates on what I can receive of him. But the more I think on it, the more God avails himself to me, mercy is his and his alone, and he, in his infinite goodness, chooses to give it.
Wallace Mercer, the real man, dared attempt the unthinkable. He was, if only in my imagination, a sort of radical to believe two warring factions might be one. I think it a tad hopeful that in my old pseudonym there's more to cherish than I originally intended. As the old, new me, Karen, may I write with hope of reconcilation in mind as a testament to the real Wallace Mercer. Not recklessly or with impure heart, but ever aware of the cost my dear savior paid for my falleness; May I sit one day in heaven over a tall pint of beer with the real Wallace Mercer, but always give thanks to God for his dear mercy in making us both. Rest in Peace, Wallace.
Soli Deo Gloria
In taking this action, I put to rest this fine name, Wallace Mercer; One taken so I could speak under a cloak. It is with a profound sense of gratitude that I release this veil. His name, conjured some five years ago by me, is actually a very real person. Wallace Mercer was, according to Wikkipedia, the chairman of the Scottish football club, the Hearts of Edinburgh from 1981-1994. He is best remembered for the controversial merger he attempted of the two rival teams in Edinburgh, the Hearts and Hibs. One need not be an expert in football or business to know that pushing for a joinder of enemies, whether for simple financial gain, or for the purpose of eternal good can make for some nasty conflict. That was the case for the real Wallace Mercer. His death in 2006 was was just prior to a match between the Hearts and Hibs. Some fans, still angered by his audacious attempt to merge the clubs, shouted disrespectfully during a moment of silence held in Mercer's honor. Presumably, it was both teams' fans that yelled during the silence. It usually comes down to that.
I do not know this real man. I know nothing about his virtue or lack thereof. Because I think this story has meaning, I won't pretend the real Wallace Mercer was someone to esteem. What I do know, is the name I chose for my veil is one I'm glad to have used. I chose Wallace because of Wallace Stevens, the complicated insurance executive/lawyer turned poet. I chose Mercer because it hints at the word mercy-a quality of God's I scarcely apprehend, yet for which I am exceedingly grateful.
Wallace Stevens is not a poet I read with regularity, but I fancy myself as like him, a bit. I do practice law. I tend to be a bit verbose, as poets can be. And Mercer, or mercy. I hesitate to even speak on the topic. Mercy and grace are words that, from time to time, are used interchangeably. The distinction is not readily apparent. The words of Rolfe Barnard clarify the difference for me:
Mercy is God's favour that holds back from us what we deserve.
Grace is God's favour that gives us what we do not deserve.-Rolfe Barnard
Perhaps it can be said that mercy is the greatest of the qualities of God. I've said it before here, on this blog, because of God's just wrath, you and I deserve death, the punishment for sin is simple and clear. But Jesus took our place. In him alone can we experience the true grace of the Father. I said I hesitate to even speak of mercy- in doing so, it seems to me, mercy is me centered-concentrates on what I can receive of him. But the more I think on it, the more God avails himself to me, mercy is his and his alone, and he, in his infinite goodness, chooses to give it.
Wallace Mercer, the real man, dared attempt the unthinkable. He was, if only in my imagination, a sort of radical to believe two warring factions might be one. I think it a tad hopeful that in my old pseudonym there's more to cherish than I originally intended. As the old, new me, Karen, may I write with hope of reconcilation in mind as a testament to the real Wallace Mercer. Not recklessly or with impure heart, but ever aware of the cost my dear savior paid for my falleness; May I sit one day in heaven over a tall pint of beer with the real Wallace Mercer, but always give thanks to God for his dear mercy in making us both. Rest in Peace, Wallace.
Soli Deo Gloria
FINE & NICE Warning: Opining ahead
In the last post, When words lie, would it make a difference to you if you later found out the speaker (attorney) was not talking to a client, but to her own son? Does it sound more or less egregious? Or is it what it is, an untruth? I wonder that. Of course this really happened, but I do not know whether the woman (whom I do know to be a practicing attorney) was chatting to a client or to her child.
The gravity of what she said shook me.
I do not care for the word fine to describe much, except hair, weather, the coat of an animal or human outerwear, a fountain pen, things of that nature... To describe the outcome of marital fracture, as fine, no matter how amicable, is simply lacking and perhaps a wrong-headed choice.
Well, you might say, she was only trying to be nice. Maybe so. Fact is, this attorney is one I would hire- she is professional, courteous, smart.
Nice is, as fine is, a word that ought be limited to describing weather, fountain pens, and jump shots-you get my drift.... I am of the less than humble opinion that describing a person or their conduct as nice is short of what one really intends-less than accurate. Nice and fine are words that can be over-used, with abandon, and with little thought for their impact upon hearing.
Of course, of course (off course is more like it) I digress. The original intent of this post was to ask you what you thought about the scenario changing in the last post-if the listener were not the client, but instead the attorney's child, would that change the impact of what she said...?
I do not think it makes a difference, in the end. Words matter, because the hearts and souls of speakers and listeners matter. Words are what we have to spend on one another to share truth by kindness. The words it's all going to be fine, no matter what the it's is, convey a certainty the speaker cannot know and move past the present grief with a there, there placation of disrespect.
I warned you this was an opinion piece. I hope it was fine. What's your opinion? I would like to hear from more of you. If you choose to reply or comment, dare to be respectful and kind, not nice. ( insert smiley face here ).
The gravity of what she said shook me.
I do not care for the word fine to describe much, except hair, weather, the coat of an animal or human outerwear, a fountain pen, things of that nature... To describe the outcome of marital fracture, as fine, no matter how amicable, is simply lacking and perhaps a wrong-headed choice.
Well, you might say, she was only trying to be nice. Maybe so. Fact is, this attorney is one I would hire- she is professional, courteous, smart.
Nice is, as fine is, a word that ought be limited to describing weather, fountain pens, and jump shots-you get my drift.... I am of the less than humble opinion that describing a person or their conduct as nice is short of what one really intends-less than accurate. Nice and fine are words that can be over-used, with abandon, and with little thought for their impact upon hearing.
Of course, of course (off course is more like it) I digress. The original intent of this post was to ask you what you thought about the scenario changing in the last post-if the listener were not the client, but instead the attorney's child, would that change the impact of what she said...?
I do not think it makes a difference, in the end. Words matter, because the hearts and souls of speakers and listeners matter. Words are what we have to spend on one another to share truth by kindness. The words it's all going to be fine, no matter what the it's is, convey a certainty the speaker cannot know and move past the present grief with a there, there placation of disrespect.
I warned you this was an opinion piece. I hope it was fine. What's your opinion? I would like to hear from more of you. If you choose to reply or comment, dare to be respectful and kind, not nice. ( insert smiley face here ).
Saturday, January 31, 2009
When words lie
This past Friday morning I overheard one half of a cell phone conversation as I entered the office on 222 Second Avenue . The speaker was dressed as a quintessential divorce attorney; shod in Prada, clothed in Karan, wrapped in Burberry cashmere, she lugged a cart full of files. Chirping into her blackberry she offered this to the person on the other end:
I know it's awful, I know it's hard, people get divorced everyday, it's all going to be fine.
She had the truth until the latter phrase. Ask a dear one you know that has travelled the road of divorce. Ask em if it is all fine. See what they say.
God have mercy; heal our hearts.
I know it's awful, I know it's hard, people get divorced everyday, it's all going to be fine.
She had the truth until the latter phrase. Ask a dear one you know that has travelled the road of divorce. Ask em if it is all fine. See what they say.
God have mercy; heal our hearts.
Monday, January 19, 2009
On Death and Fury
Weeks back, a friend was laboring over whether to attend a funeral; the reasons were complex, and my friend's heart was vexed. As he related his conflict, grief and dismay, I remembered a conversation I had with another friend on another day, several years ago.
This other friend and I had attended a funeral of a mutual friends' father. We'd come out of the chapel, reflecting on feelings and thoughts evoked for us by the pleasantries and superficiality during the visitation portion of the ritual. The phrases like well, he's in a better place now and don't he look good in that fine, navy blazer mock the fierce quality of death. On that hot summer day with my friend, the natural light was a true welcome, having been pent up under fluorescent lighting as celebrants of death, I longed for fresh air. We stood on the hot pavement and mused what it might be like if someone were to erupt in fury over the lunacy of this custom-the polite dance around the horror of death. I proposed the best time to do so would be right there, in the midst of gathered friends and loved ones; there it would have impact. I have such a tale in my life's history.
In 2002, a dear friend, my Protestant god-mother, I liked to call her, succumbed to the clutch of death. In life she had been vibrant, a mother of four boys, and friend to countless, and was my mother's closest friend for over forty years; she and her family were knit with ours, so much so that the offspring of each clan call the others' parents 'aunt' and 'uncle'; though we share no known bloodline, save for that family into which we are grafted by grace*. Simply put, her death devastated me. There is more of that story to be told, I digress.
On the eve of her burial, we all, family, friends, old business partners, acquaintances and neighbors assembled at Roesch-Patton funeral home to literally rub elbows and chatter ever so hopefully while a very dead friend lay in the adjoining room. (The words funeral home themselves are worth the energy of another post-what contrast!)
The crowd was overwhelming. Eventually, we adult children, my sister, and the three remaining boys of this woman now gone, collected ourselves to view the body-a strange pagan custom that smacks the vitality of the resurrection in the mouth, but, that's what this little narrative is about...so...
There we stood, shoulder to shoulder, dressed to the nines, in fine woolens and cottons. Peering into the fancy box of walnut or cherry that held her frame, I scanned what I could see of her neatly arranged corpse. How strange, how breathtaking, were thoughts I kept to myself. The longer we stood silent, we held onto one another for support, and for hope's sake. Tears welled up. We shook with sorrow.
I was praying this dreadful vigil would end when one of the boys spoke up, sniffling: She looks good, doesn't she? There was palpable silence. Rankled to near violence, the youngest brother fumed through clenched teeth: Good..??? She looks good?!?? Goddamn it, she's dead, she doesn't look good."
And so the prophet had spoken. Stabbed awake by the awfulness of death, we stared aghast at the speaker, and then back at her decaying body. There was nothing more to say on that strange night, so we departed in silence.
Be it an awkward attempt to comfort, or protective flight from sorrow, we all, at one time or another, speak when a sobbing silence might be good wisdom- painful, but good. On the other hand, this story exists because of precipitant words. And so there is, thank God, grace.
The family of grace* I mentioned earlier....the Church triumphant, can afford to scream in the face of death, as the younger brother in this story. Not by any merit we ourselves have won, or by irreverent fury for pain inflicted, no, only by the finished work of our Redeemer in both his blessed sacrifice and glorious defeat of death on the third day.
Soli Deo gloria.
This other friend and I had attended a funeral of a mutual friends' father. We'd come out of the chapel, reflecting on feelings and thoughts evoked for us by the pleasantries and superficiality during the visitation portion of the ritual. The phrases like well, he's in a better place now and don't he look good in that fine, navy blazer mock the fierce quality of death. On that hot summer day with my friend, the natural light was a true welcome, having been pent up under fluorescent lighting as celebrants of death, I longed for fresh air. We stood on the hot pavement and mused what it might be like if someone were to erupt in fury over the lunacy of this custom-the polite dance around the horror of death. I proposed the best time to do so would be right there, in the midst of gathered friends and loved ones; there it would have impact. I have such a tale in my life's history.
In 2002, a dear friend, my Protestant god-mother, I liked to call her, succumbed to the clutch of death. In life she had been vibrant, a mother of four boys, and friend to countless, and was my mother's closest friend for over forty years; she and her family were knit with ours, so much so that the offspring of each clan call the others' parents 'aunt' and 'uncle'; though we share no known bloodline, save for that family into which we are grafted by grace*. Simply put, her death devastated me. There is more of that story to be told, I digress.
On the eve of her burial, we all, family, friends, old business partners, acquaintances and neighbors assembled at Roesch-Patton funeral home to literally rub elbows and chatter ever so hopefully while a very dead friend lay in the adjoining room. (The words funeral home themselves are worth the energy of another post-what contrast!)
The crowd was overwhelming. Eventually, we adult children, my sister, and the three remaining boys of this woman now gone, collected ourselves to view the body-a strange pagan custom that smacks the vitality of the resurrection in the mouth, but, that's what this little narrative is about...so...
There we stood, shoulder to shoulder, dressed to the nines, in fine woolens and cottons. Peering into the fancy box of walnut or cherry that held her frame, I scanned what I could see of her neatly arranged corpse. How strange, how breathtaking, were thoughts I kept to myself. The longer we stood silent, we held onto one another for support, and for hope's sake. Tears welled up. We shook with sorrow.
I was praying this dreadful vigil would end when one of the boys spoke up, sniffling: She looks good, doesn't she? There was palpable silence. Rankled to near violence, the youngest brother fumed through clenched teeth: Good..??? She looks good?!?? Goddamn it, she's dead, she doesn't look good."
And so the prophet had spoken. Stabbed awake by the awfulness of death, we stared aghast at the speaker, and then back at her decaying body. There was nothing more to say on that strange night, so we departed in silence.
Be it an awkward attempt to comfort, or protective flight from sorrow, we all, at one time or another, speak when a sobbing silence might be good wisdom- painful, but good. On the other hand, this story exists because of precipitant words. And so there is, thank God, grace.
The family of grace* I mentioned earlier....the Church triumphant, can afford to scream in the face of death, as the younger brother in this story. Not by any merit we ourselves have won, or by irreverent fury for pain inflicted, no, only by the finished work of our Redeemer in both his blessed sacrifice and glorious defeat of death on the third day.
Soli Deo gloria.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Irony
There are plentiful examples of irony out there, but I stumbled on a good one today. While watching some coverage of the Hudson River plane ditching and rescue, I was awed by the coordinated efforts, the stunning videos. I had exhausted pretty much all there was to see when I noticed an advertisement out of the corner of my eye on CNN. Apparently you can buy T-shirts with CNN headlines on them; you can 'sport' the news on your chest. One such T-shirt available for purchase says " Obama elected the 44th president ". For all the grousing the mainstream media does about big business greed, I think their creative genuis is rich irony.
On many levels, the election of a president is news. It's not just news anymore. You can buy it. It is for sale. Not just once, but many times over. Check this out, I kid you not.
On many levels, the election of a president is news. It's not just news anymore. You can buy it. It is for sale. Not just once, but many times over. Check this out, I kid you not.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Walls Have Ears
Maybe it is because I had little sleep last night- or maybe it is because I am genuinely paranoid; I took some comfort in this-
Knowing that, even if it is true, I can laugh.
borrowed from: http://xkcd.com/525/
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Dire Need
“As a race we are not even stray sheep or wandering prodigals, we are rebels with weapons in our hands. Our supreme need from God, therefore, is not the education of our conscience but our redemption.”
- Peter Taylor (P.T.) Forsyth
with acknowledgement to http://gospelreminders.com/ a site with daily reminders of the Gospel.
- Peter Taylor (P.T.) Forsyth
with acknowledgement to http://gospelreminders.com/ a site with daily reminders of the Gospel.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Thursday, January 1, 2009
We were made for Him
Lest someone think me too fond of Joe Pa, (see previous post, The Lame Lion) I sure as heck do not want to elevate him to being worshipped. But at the risk of you thinking I do, watch this sweet montage with vocals by Brandi Carlile as she wails part of her hit song, The Story.
The Story
All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
.....It's true...I was made for you
Repeat.
God knows what kind of pain or joy, or both that made Brandi Carlile the outright perfect soul to sing this song that aptly suits this montage. I have no clue. Her voice, in itself, (like Paterno's face,) tells a story that makes one want to sit up and listen.
I did no research and just stumbled upon this video/song. One thing I know. The line: It's true, I was made for you would, for years, have meant to me that I was made for the soul of another. What I hear tonight is a hymn to God. I was made for him. And so were you.
And so was Joe Paterno.
The Story
All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
.....It's true...I was made for you
Repeat.
God knows what kind of pain or joy, or both that made Brandi Carlile the outright perfect soul to sing this song that aptly suits this montage. I have no clue. Her voice, in itself, (like Paterno's face,) tells a story that makes one want to sit up and listen.
I did no research and just stumbled upon this video/song. One thing I know. The line: It's true, I was made for you would, for years, have meant to me that I was made for the soul of another. What I hear tonight is a hymn to God. I was made for him. And so were you.
And so was Joe Paterno.
The Lame Lion
This afternoon, the Penn State Nittany Lions will meet the University of Southern California Trojans in the Rose Bowl. A glorious football event to be sure. There are two great teams in the contest, but I am here to talk about one fellow.
What of Joe Paterno? He's at least a living legend. The eighty something year old coach has been leading the Nittany Lions his entire career. He has been at the helm since the mid-sixties.
from USA Today: Penn State has had one football coach since 1966. The rest of major college football has made 837 coaching moves — and counting.
With all due respect to that good-looking fellow who coaches for USC. Wow.
Who'll win? Probably USC. I hope Penn State wins, I can't explain my affinity for Paterno, but he's the entire reason I cheer for the Nittany Lions. Just look at Joe Paterno. Watch him stand still, watch him holler,watch him grimace. He ain't pretty, and he's all banged up, but he is a god among earthly leaders. Check out this ESPN video from today.
I wouldn't be posting this if Paterno weren't a winning coach, but that is still beside my point. What draws me to this joyful curmudgeon of a man only intensifies as he ages. In October of 2007, he got tackled inadvertently on the sideline of the Wisconsin game, and suffered an injury that would've ushered retirement for a lesser man. He's still at it today.
"Joe Pa" as fans have come to call him is attractive for reasons that confound reason. He's old. He's wrinkled. He's lame.
Something I daresay Joe Paterno knows is that we were not made for this world. Our bodies do wear and tear. As fit as we can be, we are still lame and in great need. Let us look forward to aging, let us be in the midst of it with grace and vigor like Joe Paterno.
Go Lions.
What of Joe Paterno? He's at least a living legend. The eighty something year old coach has been leading the Nittany Lions his entire career. He has been at the helm since the mid-sixties.
from USA Today: Penn State has had one football coach since 1966. The rest of major college football has made 837 coaching moves — and counting.
With all due respect to that good-looking fellow who coaches for USC. Wow.
Who'll win? Probably USC. I hope Penn State wins, I can't explain my affinity for Paterno, but he's the entire reason I cheer for the Nittany Lions. Just look at Joe Paterno. Watch him stand still, watch him holler,watch him grimace. He ain't pretty, and he's all banged up, but he is a god among earthly leaders. Check out this ESPN video from today.
I wouldn't be posting this if Paterno weren't a winning coach, but that is still beside my point. What draws me to this joyful curmudgeon of a man only intensifies as he ages. In October of 2007, he got tackled inadvertently on the sideline of the Wisconsin game, and suffered an injury that would've ushered retirement for a lesser man. He's still at it today.
"Joe Pa" as fans have come to call him is attractive for reasons that confound reason. He's old. He's wrinkled. He's lame.
Something I daresay Joe Paterno knows is that we were not made for this world. Our bodies do wear and tear. As fit as we can be, we are still lame and in great need. Let us look forward to aging, let us be in the midst of it with grace and vigor like Joe Paterno.
Go Lions.
The Old Story
How many times have you Christians heard it? The gospel of Jesus Christ our Lord. The subject of many of the posts here. The old story is the one I long to hear, again and again. If you are reading this and have yet to confess Christ as Lord, ask now to receive him. Do not wait.
Whatever keeps you from it is the same thing that kept anyone who ever hesitated-a belief that being good enough will sustain you. A belief that other little gods are plenty. A belief there is no such thing as sin. A belief there is no such thing as truth. There's much more, yet all these beliefs point to at least two things: that one must believe to be, (whether or not one believes in God) and that there is truth. And from this, a standard of truth, an inference must be drawn that truth has a Teller.
A great American statesman, Daniel P. Moynihan said something on the order of:
"Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, not their own facts"
Thus begins the battle:
Who are you to say that this way is the truth? Good question. Who am I?
A sinner, saved by the grace and mercy of my Lord Jesus. There's more. The gospel's offense is that no one is spared. You, my friend, are a sinner in need of saving too. ( Romans 3:23).
You simply cannot wiggle around it. You cannot do it. Nor can the articulate teachers and politicians. No feel-good sermon is going to be adequate; it is not about felt boards in Sunday School. It is not about being an ethical person. It is not about being religious. The crux of it is that God so loved the world. So loved. that he gave his only son, that he gave. that he gave. he. gave so that whoever would believe on him, Jesus, the son, would inherit eternal life. (John 3:16)
We, mankind, fell in Eden. (Genesis 3:1-24) We mankind, are sin-soaked. In that state, we are condemned to hell. Strong language. Strong truth. God's holiness demands righteousness. Though we, mankind, have tried since near the beginning to get righteousness right on our own, God himself had to make a way.
John Piper says that God is the gospel. Not you. Not me. Not your gods, or mine. Not your righteousness, or mine. God. He did for us in Christ what we could not do. To think that our Triune God, the Creator of the universe has so loved us first by providing a way to him, is astonishing. (Genesis 3:21 & Paul's letter to the Romans 3:21-25)
A friend sent me this quote the other day, give it due consideration:
If we needed an education, God would have sent us a teacher. If we needed prosperity, God would have sent us an economist. If we needed therapy, God would have sent us a psychiatrist. If we needed healing, God would have sent us a physician. If we needed technology, God would have sent us a scientist. If we had needed knowledge, God would have sent us philosopher. But what we needed most was redemption, so God sent us a Savior!
My response to this quote is a good illustration of just how dire my need. I thought when I read it- how terribly simple! And my next thought, almost too terribly simple I also thought, God himself knows I've needed a mental health professional. And, in his great mercy has seen fit to orchestrate that good on my behalf. And he knows I've needed (and still do need) healing. And in his same great mercy that never wavers, he ordained some healing into his plan. The crux of this quote, just like the very simple gospel of Jesus, is that first we needed to be saved. Saved not from the edge of the precipice of doom. Doctors and psychiatrists can assist with that. Nor need we to be saved from economic despair. We, here, now, in this time, see the comedy and the tragedy in that. No educational plan or politician's motive can rescue. Not your favorite teacher, philosopher or entertainer. Socrates and Plato-they are fine purveyors of great truths and thought, but impotent to save you from your dark heart, and me, mine Not Martha Stewart. Not Oprah. Not Milton Friedman. Not William F. Buckley. Not Freud, Rogers, Maslow, et. al God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob may appoint who he deems fit to work out his sovereign plan, and will do so. Though all these folk have offered some good, none, not one, is equipped to redeem us from sin.
Jesus, the God-man speaking:
I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, and no one comes to the Father but through me.
- John 14:6
That old story. The gospel. I love to tell the story.
Whatever keeps you from it is the same thing that kept anyone who ever hesitated-a belief that being good enough will sustain you. A belief that other little gods are plenty. A belief there is no such thing as sin. A belief there is no such thing as truth. There's much more, yet all these beliefs point to at least two things: that one must believe to be, (whether or not one believes in God) and that there is truth. And from this, a standard of truth, an inference must be drawn that truth has a Teller.
A great American statesman, Daniel P. Moynihan said something on the order of:
"Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, not their own facts"
Thus begins the battle:
Who are you to say that this way is the truth? Good question. Who am I?
A sinner, saved by the grace and mercy of my Lord Jesus. There's more. The gospel's offense is that no one is spared. You, my friend, are a sinner in need of saving too. ( Romans 3:23).
You simply cannot wiggle around it. You cannot do it. Nor can the articulate teachers and politicians. No feel-good sermon is going to be adequate; it is not about felt boards in Sunday School. It is not about being an ethical person. It is not about being religious. The crux of it is that God so loved the world. So loved. that he gave his only son, that he gave. that he gave. he. gave so that whoever would believe on him, Jesus, the son, would inherit eternal life. (John 3:16)
We, mankind, fell in Eden. (Genesis 3:1-24) We mankind, are sin-soaked. In that state, we are condemned to hell. Strong language. Strong truth. God's holiness demands righteousness. Though we, mankind, have tried since near the beginning to get righteousness right on our own, God himself had to make a way.
John Piper says that God is the gospel. Not you. Not me. Not your gods, or mine. Not your righteousness, or mine. God. He did for us in Christ what we could not do. To think that our Triune God, the Creator of the universe has so loved us first by providing a way to him, is astonishing. (Genesis 3:21 & Paul's letter to the Romans 3:21-25)
A friend sent me this quote the other day, give it due consideration:
If we needed an education, God would have sent us a teacher. If we needed prosperity, God would have sent us an economist. If we needed therapy, God would have sent us a psychiatrist. If we needed healing, God would have sent us a physician. If we needed technology, God would have sent us a scientist. If we had needed knowledge, God would have sent us philosopher. But what we needed most was redemption, so God sent us a Savior!
My response to this quote is a good illustration of just how dire my need. I thought when I read it- how terribly simple! And my next thought, almost too terribly simple I also thought, God himself knows I've needed a mental health professional. And, in his great mercy has seen fit to orchestrate that good on my behalf. And he knows I've needed (and still do need) healing. And in his same great mercy that never wavers, he ordained some healing into his plan. The crux of this quote, just like the very simple gospel of Jesus, is that first we needed to be saved. Saved not from the edge of the precipice of doom. Doctors and psychiatrists can assist with that. Nor need we to be saved from economic despair. We, here, now, in this time, see the comedy and the tragedy in that. No educational plan or politician's motive can rescue. Not your favorite teacher, philosopher or entertainer. Socrates and Plato-they are fine purveyors of great truths and thought, but impotent to save you from your dark heart, and me, mine Not Martha Stewart. Not Oprah. Not Milton Friedman. Not William F. Buckley. Not Freud, Rogers, Maslow, et. al God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob may appoint who he deems fit to work out his sovereign plan, and will do so. Though all these folk have offered some good, none, not one, is equipped to redeem us from sin.
Jesus, the God-man speaking:
I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, and no one comes to the Father but through me.
- John 14:6
That old story. The gospel. I love to tell the story.
I Love to Tell the Story
I love to tell the story of unseen things above,
Of Jesus and His glory, of Jesus and His love;
I love to tell the story, because I know ’tis true,
It satisfies my longings as nothing else would do.
I love to tell the story,
’Twill be my theme in glory,
To tell the old, old story
Of Jesus and His love.
I love to tell the story, more wonderful it seems
Than all the golden fancies of all our golden dreams;
I love to tell the story, it did so much for me,
And that is just the reason I tell it now to thee.
I love to tell the story, ’tis pleasant to repeat,
What seems each time I tell it more wonderfully sweet;
I love to tell the story, for some have never heard
The message of salvation from God’s own holy Word.
I love to tell the story, for those who know it best
Seem hungering and thirsting to hear it like the rest;
And when in scenes of glory I sing the new, new song,
’Twill be the old, old story that I have loved so long.
Of Jesus and His glory, of Jesus and His love;
I love to tell the story, because I know ’tis true,
It satisfies my longings as nothing else would do.
I love to tell the story,
’Twill be my theme in glory,
To tell the old, old story
Of Jesus and His love.
I love to tell the story, more wonderful it seems
Than all the golden fancies of all our golden dreams;
I love to tell the story, it did so much for me,
And that is just the reason I tell it now to thee.
I love to tell the story, ’tis pleasant to repeat,
What seems each time I tell it more wonderfully sweet;
I love to tell the story, for some have never heard
The message of salvation from God’s own holy Word.
I love to tell the story, for those who know it best
Seem hungering and thirsting to hear it like the rest;
And when in scenes of glory I sing the new, new song,
’Twill be the old, old story that I have loved so long.
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