Friday, April 27, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
“They shuddered at the thought of hard work, and led precariously easy lives, always on the verge of dismissal, always on the verge of engagement, serving Chinamen, Arabs, half-castes- would have served the devil himself had he made it easy enough. They talked everlastingly of turns of luck: how So-and-so got charge of a boat on the coast of China- a soft thing; how this one had an easy billet in Japan somewhere, and that one was doing well in the Siamese navy; and in all they said- in their actions, in their looks, in their persons- could be detected the soft spot, the place of decay, the determination to lounge safely through existence.”
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Thursday, April 19, 2007
AFTER WORK, BOWDEN AND I TOOK A WALK ON THE CAMP'S HIKING TRAIL.
For my birthday I bought myself a pound of lupine seed for $30.00. I sowed the seeds hither and thither the entire length of the trail and Bowden and I were pleased to see them sprouting.
Bowden liked this snow plant.
We hung out at Dead Man's cave for a long time. Bowden really likes it there.
MOWING THE BALLFIELD
"All flesh is grass,
And all its loveliness is like the flower of the field.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
Because the breath of the Lord blows upon it;
Surely the people are grass.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
But the word of our God stands forever."
And all its loveliness is like the flower of the field.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
Because the breath of the Lord blows upon it;
Surely the people are grass.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
But the word of our God stands forever."
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
GOTCHA!!!
I was working my second double shift in a row and I was tired. I parked my cruiser in the vacant parking lot behind the court house. It was 1:30 a.m. on a slow, boring Tuesday night. I had four more hours to go before I could punch out, drive home, and fall asleep in my bed.
I was afraid that if I stayed in my warm cruiser I would fall asleep, so I radioed dispatch and advised our new dispatcher, Jen, that I would be out on foot patrol downtown. “10-4 seven-two-eight,” came her reply.
As I stepped out of the warm cocoon of my cruiser, my boots crunched on the frozen surface of packed snow and the cold night air cut through my uniform and made me shiver involuntarily. I was tired and cold. I felt soft. A cold wind was whistling through the buildings and whipping the flag in front of the courthouse. Across the street an empty beer can, driven by the same wind, rattled along the curb of the deserted street.
I started walking. I was a believer in foot patrol, and I tried to get out of my cruiser every shift and walk around downtown. I liked doing the unexpected things like getting the door for somebody, picking up a piece of litter, or asking the kids in the park if I could play hacky-sack with them. I believe it was a valuable exercise, but this was 1:30 in the morning on a cold Tuesday night in Northern Vermont. It wasn’t fit for man nor beast, and I felt soft.
I hadn’t walked far before I was tempted to scrap the whole thing and scurry back to the warmth of my cruiser. A savage wind howled across municipal parking lot #1, making my eyes tear up. The tips of my fingers, as well as my nose and ears, were beginning to hurt a little too. I retreated out of the parking lot into the alleyway by the Moose Lodge where I could stand out of the wind. I was standing there trying to make up my mind whether or not to go back to my cruiser when I saw a pair of headlights making their way lazily down Federal Street. As they turned onto Kingman Street I saw that it was a Sheriff’s Cruiser. I watched as it pulled to the curb. A second later Deputy Theberge got out and walked towards the Samaritan House. Even from across the parking lot I could hear his boots clomping their way up the sidewalk and out of sight behind a row of buildings.
The Samaritan House was a homeless shelter located right in the midst of the bar district. They had strict rules, and their staff were a very caring and conscientious bunch, but a list of their residents would have read like a who’s who of our regulars. We did a lot of business there. I assumed that Deputy Theberge needed to serve paperwork or question somebody inside.
Theberge was a buddy of mine. We had gone to the academy together and our rooms had been next to each other. He had been in the military before joining the Sheriff’s department and he flew helicopters on weekends in the summer looking for Marijuana growing operations. Our agencies worked together a lot, and we patrolled some of the same area, so we had occasion to rub shoulders a lot.
I decided to play a prank on him. It was a juvenile thing to do. It wasn’t even creative or clever. I decided to wait around the corner until he came out, and then when he started to walk back towards his cruiser I would jump out and yell something at him.
That was my plan.
I hustled across the barren landscape of municipal parking lot #1 and took up my position around the corner from the Samaritan House. My hiding place was exposed to the full brunt of the merciless wind, and my teeth chattered as I waited. It seemed like forever before I heard the Samaritan House’s door open onto the street, and a pair of boots began clomping their way in my direction. The sound of the boots grew nearer and nearer, and I grinned in anticipation. Just when I thought he was right on top of me I sprang from my hiding place, bared my teeth, and yelled “AHHHHHHHHHH!” directly into the face of the most bewildered and frightened homeless man you have ever seen.
I don’t know if he was the sort of homeless man who is mentally ill and who thinks the Government is out to get him, but if he was, I could only of confirmed his fears that night. He stared at me for a moment…petrified… a look of naked horror on his face…and then he retreated back into the homeless shelter with a yelp.
I turned and fled. My feet, numb within my boots, fairly flew over the arctic expanse of the parking lot. They nimbly raced through the alleyway by the moose lodge, and back across Lake Street. I ripped my glove off of my hand with my teeth and fished my keys out of my pocket. With cold, red fingers I unlocked my cruiser door and slid into the driver seat. Breathing heavily, I watched as a staff worker from the Samaritan House peaked around the corner where I had been hiding.
A little embarrassed, but definitely awake, I radioed dispatch and advised Jen that I was back in my cruiser. “10-4 seven-two-eight,” came her reply.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Saturday, April 14, 2007
AN EXCERPT FROM "MY DAYS AS A GEL TECH"
"I found a wild woman and took her as my wife.
She'd been living in the woods, a wild sort of life.
She was straight and brown just like the pines.
And her hair was a wild tangle of vines.
I bought my wild wife a bed,
But she preferred the ground instead,
And the clothes I bought her at the store-
She threw about and never wore."
She'd been living in the woods, a wild sort of life.
She was straight and brown just like the pines.
And her hair was a wild tangle of vines.
I bought my wild wife a bed,
But she preferred the ground instead,
And the clothes I bought her at the store-
She threw about and never wore."
Sunday, April 08, 2007
AN EASTER POST FROM THE ARCHIVES
I stood there with a disgusted look on my face as a fluid consisting of old eggs, roast beef, rotten vegetables, coffee grounds, and what I think was two week old potato salad ran down the front of my Camp Maranatha sweatshirt, and collected in foul smelling puddles at my feet. “I hate the dump,” I murmured to myself as I shook icky gook from my hands and removed my soiled sweatshirt.
The trash bag, which I had been hefting, was one of those 60-gallon monsters that service the camp’s kitchen. It had been ensconced amongst its slimy brethren in the mysterious depths of the camp’s trash trailer for nearly two weeks. From experience I knew that when you are tossing a bag of that size you must muster all of your strength. Then in one smooth motion pull it from its berth and hurl it towards the dumpster. This is the best way to minimize contact with the bag, and gain sufficient momentum to carry it all the way to its destination. This I have learned over the course of many successful dump runs, and I had executed exactly the same maneuver on many occasions without incident. But this time was different, for when I pulled the bag from its slimy dripping nest the jagged end of a broken broom handle caught against it- gutting it like a fish. The bunched muscles in my arms, back, chest, and thighs had already committed to the throw, and with all of my strength I brought the compromised bag up to chest level. At that very moment the coffee filters and spaghetti, which a moment ago had been pressed against the opaque inner lining of the trash bag, spilled forth. The space within the trailer was too cramped and mobility too constricted to avoid being covered with the stuff.
I was in a dark mood as I finished unloading the trash trailer. I couldn’t escape the sickly sweet trash smell, which had soaked into my clothes. I thought about all the people who had so carelessly thrown things into that trash bag, and I secretly blamed them for what had happened. It didn’t make sense, I know, but I did it anyway.
On the drive home the smell emanating from my sweatshirt, which was wadded up on the passenger side floorboards, forced me to roll down my window. As the road climbed it’s way towards town and back to camp the Lord reminded me of Romans 5:8 which says “But God demonstrates his own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners Christ died for us”, and also 1st John 2:1-2 which says “My dear children, I write this to you so that you will not sin. But if anybody does sin, we have one who speaks to the Father in our defense- Jesus Christ, the Righteous One. He is the atoning sacrifice for our sins, and not only for ours but also for the sins of the whole world.”
I thought about how God came down into the trash trailer of this world and willingly and intentionally took my sins upon Himself. The whole stinking mess of my life, which if it were written out on the pages of this blog, would cause me to slink off in shame and never be heard from again. I thought of all those secret shameful things. All the harm I’ve inflicted on others. All those evil thoughts I harbored and acted upon. All of it spilling forth from my life like a ruptured trash bag, and running over Christ. Him stinking of me. Stinking of my sin. Not only my sin however, but the sin of the whole world. The whole landfill! And He didn’t do it because it was His job, or because He had to. No, He did it because He loved us. He loved us even though we were an oozing putrid sack of sin. He didn’t try to minimize contact with us either, but came down among us. He clutched us to Him in a loving embrace, and became trash in our place. What a God we serve!
Lord, I am so unworthy of your sacrifice on the cross, and I am amazed that you love me. I owe you everything, and I offer you the meager sum of who I am. Take me Lord and use me. It is my greatest desire to serve you.
The trash bag, which I had been hefting, was one of those 60-gallon monsters that service the camp’s kitchen. It had been ensconced amongst its slimy brethren in the mysterious depths of the camp’s trash trailer for nearly two weeks. From experience I knew that when you are tossing a bag of that size you must muster all of your strength. Then in one smooth motion pull it from its berth and hurl it towards the dumpster. This is the best way to minimize contact with the bag, and gain sufficient momentum to carry it all the way to its destination. This I have learned over the course of many successful dump runs, and I had executed exactly the same maneuver on many occasions without incident. But this time was different, for when I pulled the bag from its slimy dripping nest the jagged end of a broken broom handle caught against it- gutting it like a fish. The bunched muscles in my arms, back, chest, and thighs had already committed to the throw, and with all of my strength I brought the compromised bag up to chest level. At that very moment the coffee filters and spaghetti, which a moment ago had been pressed against the opaque inner lining of the trash bag, spilled forth. The space within the trailer was too cramped and mobility too constricted to avoid being covered with the stuff.
I was in a dark mood as I finished unloading the trash trailer. I couldn’t escape the sickly sweet trash smell, which had soaked into my clothes. I thought about all the people who had so carelessly thrown things into that trash bag, and I secretly blamed them for what had happened. It didn’t make sense, I know, but I did it anyway.
On the drive home the smell emanating from my sweatshirt, which was wadded up on the passenger side floorboards, forced me to roll down my window. As the road climbed it’s way towards town and back to camp the Lord reminded me of Romans 5:8 which says “But God demonstrates his own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners Christ died for us”, and also 1st John 2:1-2 which says “My dear children, I write this to you so that you will not sin. But if anybody does sin, we have one who speaks to the Father in our defense- Jesus Christ, the Righteous One. He is the atoning sacrifice for our sins, and not only for ours but also for the sins of the whole world.”
I thought about how God came down into the trash trailer of this world and willingly and intentionally took my sins upon Himself. The whole stinking mess of my life, which if it were written out on the pages of this blog, would cause me to slink off in shame and never be heard from again. I thought of all those secret shameful things. All the harm I’ve inflicted on others. All those evil thoughts I harbored and acted upon. All of it spilling forth from my life like a ruptured trash bag, and running over Christ. Him stinking of me. Stinking of my sin. Not only my sin however, but the sin of the whole world. The whole landfill! And He didn’t do it because it was His job, or because He had to. No, He did it because He loved us. He loved us even though we were an oozing putrid sack of sin. He didn’t try to minimize contact with us either, but came down among us. He clutched us to Him in a loving embrace, and became trash in our place. What a God we serve!
Lord, I am so unworthy of your sacrifice on the cross, and I am amazed that you love me. I owe you everything, and I offer you the meager sum of who I am. Take me Lord and use me. It is my greatest desire to serve you.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
They say the fields are wet with dew
But I know otherwise;
Fish were dancing in those fields
'Til just before sunrise.
I've seen 'em do it lots of times
When they think no one's awake;
All silver in the moonlight
In the fields down by the lake.
Schools of yellow perch and sunfish
Mix with walleye, trout and bass,
And with every dip and twirl
Water spatters on the grass.
They always stop their revelry
Just before the crack of dawn,
Wiggle their way back to the lake,
And just like that they're gone.
Friday, April 06, 2007
POINT COUNTERPOINT
Today's Topic: Vermont
Sarah- "I hated Vermont. You don't even understand. It was cold and muggy and ughhh. It was awful. The people in St Albans smelled like cigarettes and onions."
Josh: "Oh, come on!"
IDEAS ARE FRAGILE
I think I forget ninety-nine percent of what people tell me, trapping it verbatim for a short time, and then letting it fade into the fuzzy past where it lands like a snow flake on the soft heap of forgotten conversations, sermons, and advertisements. Every once in a while though somebody will say something to me that truly sticks, and which I visit again and again in my brain where it is permanently stored for easy reference.
One such time wiggled into my ear about eight years ago when I attended a seminar for business majors wherein a man said that “ideas are fragile.” He explained that it is human nature that when we are faced with a new idea we give it a good shake to test it and to see if it will stand up. Sometimes the shaking can be violent, and some ideas don’t survive. An idea’s survival or untimely death, often ride on the ability of its champion to defend it.
History is littered with bad ideas that bloomed into fruition thanks to the ability of its misguided defenders, and some good ideas faced opposition too, but were successfully protected and promoted until they had proven themselves viable. However, many good ideas sprouted in the toxic soil of criticism and wilted for lack of encouragement under the glaring hot sun of detractors.
I hold an idea today- a vulnerable & fragile thing, and if you want to give it a shake you’ll have to get through me first. For now though I will tuck it away in the closet of my heart wrapped up in an old soft t-shirt inside a shoe box. It’s not that it’s not ready for the shaking… it’s more like its champion isn’t. I need more time to be prepared and to train for the coming battle.
I take comfort not in my abilities, but in those of God. If the idea is of Him it won’t die for my lack of ability. If it is not of God than no amount of my ability will bring it success- at least not as I define success.
One such time wiggled into my ear about eight years ago when I attended a seminar for business majors wherein a man said that “ideas are fragile.” He explained that it is human nature that when we are faced with a new idea we give it a good shake to test it and to see if it will stand up. Sometimes the shaking can be violent, and some ideas don’t survive. An idea’s survival or untimely death, often ride on the ability of its champion to defend it.
History is littered with bad ideas that bloomed into fruition thanks to the ability of its misguided defenders, and some good ideas faced opposition too, but were successfully protected and promoted until they had proven themselves viable. However, many good ideas sprouted in the toxic soil of criticism and wilted for lack of encouragement under the glaring hot sun of detractors.
I hold an idea today- a vulnerable & fragile thing, and if you want to give it a shake you’ll have to get through me first. For now though I will tuck it away in the closet of my heart wrapped up in an old soft t-shirt inside a shoe box. It’s not that it’s not ready for the shaking… it’s more like its champion isn’t. I need more time to be prepared and to train for the coming battle.
I take comfort not in my abilities, but in those of God. If the idea is of Him it won’t die for my lack of ability. If it is not of God than no amount of my ability will bring it success- at least not as I define success.
REDEEMED!!!
A couple of weeks ago I was at the Idyllwild Dump on my weekly dump run when I spied an old ratty looking bench in one of the dumpsters. I routinely check all the dumpsters for any items of interest when I go to the dump. I fished the bench out and brought it home with the idea that I would refurbish it and place it somewhere on Camp Maranatha's new hiking trail. Bowden helped a little.
Today Sarah and the kids were returned to me from their vacation with nanny in Oceanside. I had finished the bench while they were gone so we walked up there so they could see it in its new home. After checking out the bench we walked the rest of the hiking trail. Along the way we met up with Lisa Richard who was sitting atop "coyote rock." (It is so called because there is a lot of coyote poop on top of it.)
It was a nice day here in Idyllwild. Wish you all could have been here to enjoy it with us.
Today Sarah and the kids were returned to me from their vacation with nanny in Oceanside. I had finished the bench while they were gone so we walked up there so they could see it in its new home. After checking out the bench we walked the rest of the hiking trail. Along the way we met up with Lisa Richard who was sitting atop "coyote rock." (It is so called because there is a lot of coyote poop on top of it.)
It was a nice day here in Idyllwild. Wish you all could have been here to enjoy it with us.
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