A little respect for the garbage man

This is a bad week to be a trash man.

 Wikipedia

I survey the bags of crumbled Christmas wrapping, the empty computer and television cartons, and the black bags containing the remains of the big dinner piled along the streets. Each morning, the collectors  clock in, get their assignments, and then grab the keys to their vehicles. They start them up and rumble out of the yard, one by one, fanning out across the city.

At some point, these trucks will fill up. There’s only so much that can collect before they will have to go to the landfill to deposit their collections.

My friend John once commented on a mutual acquaintance, calling him a "human garbage truck." This person was so full of junk – frustration, anger, and disappointment -- that eventually, he had to find a place to dump it. And sometimes, it was right on me. Even though I was his friend, it didn't matter.

Isn't it true, that the people who mean the most to me get my garbage.


How many times did I come home, frustrated at the boss, only to take it out on my wife and children? My family and friends have been witness to my temper, my selfishness, and my prideful tantrums. "God, give me patience -- and love -- when others do the same to me."

There are people all around you who have full trucks today. Somebody may just choose to dump on you.

I love the axiom. "Love the people who treat you right. Pray for the ones who don’t.” There's even a Bible verse somewhere about that, but I don't read it often. "Love those that hate you, and persecute you," and "Return good for evil."


Boy, this is tough.


Care to comment? 

Recalculating

What's not to love about the GPS?

With millions of miles of roads, attractions, gas stations and destinations, there's no reason to buy a map ever again. Piggybacking off military satellites, American companies have found ways to tap into the invisible beam to help a whole world of humans find their way.

And still, we are lost.

Oh sure, we know how many miles it is from Greenville to Columbus, but we don't know how to find our way to reconciliation. We know how to get to Candyland with the kids, but we don't know how to reach their hearts. We know how to find a Chinese restaurant in Loveland, but we are still searching for someone who can touch our heat.

I knew a friend who claimed he could find every answer in The Book. His daughter was told she needed braces. He needed confirmation, so he spent the weekend scouring the pages, looking for a clue. Usually he would find one, a lost verse in Lamentations  or Proverbs, and he would proudly pronounce his answer. That never seemed right to me. I want to find the answers without twisting the words to make them fit. The answers are there, in black and red, but so is God, right in my heart.

The GPS is given the coordinates and off we go to our destination. But I am a wanderer, a drifter. I pull off at quirky side attractions, wondering what all the fuss is about. If there's a world's largest frying pan or a UFO watchtower or corn palace, I'm there. If the sign says, "scenic overlook," I can't pass it up.

The Australian voice programmed in the GPS, Geoff, patiently finds me where I'm at and gently encourages me to get back on the road. "Recalculating," he says, while giving the new coordinates.

And God finds me right where I'm at. Wandering, confused, and on a path that leads to nowhere, I sometimes don't even know I'm lost. He recalculates, and loves me back home.

Feel free to comment here.

The bells on Christmas Day -- The song and the story

One of my favorite Christmas songs is I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, taken from a poem penned by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The poem was written in the middle of America's Civil War -- and the despair engulfed the nation.

It was a time of personal despair for Longfellow. His wife had died tragically. After trimming hair from her seven-year old's head, she decided to preserve the clippings in sealing wax. Melting a bar of sealing wax with a candle, a few drops fell unnoticed upon her dress. A breeze gusted through the window and the flame engulfed her dress. In a few moments she was gone.

Longfellow wrote on the first Christmas after her death, "How inexpressibly sad are all holidays. I can make no record of these days. Better leave them wrapped in silence. Perhaps someday God will give me peace."

Almost a year later, Longfellow received word that his oldest son Charles, a lieutenant in the Army of the Potomac, had been severely wounded with a bullet passing through his spine and killing him.

Three years later, he began to feel some hope again. And on Christmas Day of 1864, he wrote the words of the poem, "Christmas Bells." The line, "God is not dead,' is a reminder to all who have lost that there is hope.

Fear Not, My Friend

They were amazing words, echoing across the sheep-filled grasses, a billion blinking stars danced in approval

"For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord."



Flikr Photo by galibert olivier

Still, the shepherds trembled. And the words of reassurance came from the angel. "Fear not."

It was a common theme in preparation for the baby’s birth. When Zacharias was in the temple, he heard “Fear Not.” When the angel appeared to Mary, he said, “Fear Not.”

Why should anyone fear an angel? Why should anyone fear words that bring such good news? Why should anyone fear the Christmas message?

But it’s true. We are afraid.We were afraid then. And we are afraid now.

I have a friend who will not come to a 45-minute Christmas Eve service. He is content to watch A Christmas Story on television, only to be interrupted every 12 minutes with ads about the latest sedan or dishsoap. Maybe there will be a good rerun on later. Maybe someone will call. Maybe. 

The box of Queen Anne Cherries sits next to his chair while the blinking lights flash from his neighbors house bounce off his drawn curtains.

He is alone. And deep down he is afraid of the angel’s message. He is afraid that his persona of hating organized religion will crumble when faced with a personal Jesus. He is afraid that the truth he has seen so clearly might just invade his heart. He is afraid that after all of these years of resistance, that he'll actually give in to someone greater than he. So he clings to the fear, ignoring the words of the angel.

Fear not, my friend. Fear not.

If we will take the trip, he'll light the sky

My life isn't really all that deliberate. In fact, most of my blessings I have just stumbled into. I can't tell you how many times I've looked at my good things in my life and wondered, "how in the world did I get here?"  I'm not educated, nor am I gifted or rich.  

I just got a great job promotion that I'm not convinced I totally earned. I have relationships  that have changed my life, people that I never sought out. I just found them. Or they found me. And despite my bad self, I still have friends who stuck with me.  
Looking around, I'm so blessed, and I didn't do anything to deserve any of it. 

Is it possible to just get "lucky" in regards to God? Can I just try to live right and suddenly find myself smack dab in the middle of wonder, without even trying?  

Or do I have to be intentional -- seeking Him out.

I wish I had acted more like the wise men, looking for the answer rather than just bumbling along.

They asked for an answer and all they had to do was follow the star. It was almost as if God was saying, "You take the trip, I'll light the sky." 

Paul describes humans as "seekers of God, feeling their way toward him". A.W. Tozer said that "God is never found accidentally." 

What would I see, if only I would start to look? 


“And you will seek Me and find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart” (Jer. 29:13).

What do you think? Do we need to seek Him out? Or does He just show up? Comment here.

Blue Christmas: For those who have lost

Image via Wikipedia

Listen to the radio and you’ll hear Elvis croon his Christmas classic.

“I'll have a blue Christmas without you.”

Nancy Fransen, who blogs at Out of My Alleged Mind, wrote about the loss of her father, and the wistfulness of her mother this time of year. In her post, “You can dance if you want,"  she reflected on the Elvis classic song, Blue Christmas, and her general disdain for it. It makes her mother cry.

While there is plenty of merriment in the air, you'll often catch a dissenting look in someone's eyes. You'll notice the wistful way they remember. Every Christmas carol, every celebration, every decoration holds a memory that is at the same time both fulfilling and painful.

Christmas, we’re told,  is a time for cheer and joy. It’s a season for  wishes and dreams come true. But for those who have experienced loss it’s simply a memory of what they don’t have. Try as they can, the Christ child and redemption never seems to  overcome the sense of hollow pain.

Nancy has a wise solution.  Embrace both worlds.

“Maybe the best way to do so is by fully entering into the blue-ness of the season, daring ourselves to tell the truth about what’s messed up, broken, and sad in our lives,” she writs.

I can understand the logic of this.

You never know the joy of being found until you are lost.  You’ll never know grace until you need it. You’ll never run to a Savior until you realize you need one. The twist of loss and gain is locked in a holy embrace. It all defies explanation until you walk in it.

For me, I never squinted at the sun until I emerged from pitch black.

And really, Christmas is all about a piercing light that broke the endless, hopeless litany of a people without hope.

The glad tidings sound ever-so-sweet compared to the chords of a world that can't carry a tune.

What songs make you blue? Which ones lift  you up?

What's buried in my back yard?

I took one my mother's shovels and worked diligently for a week after school in the empty lot across the street. I was on a treasure hunt, certain I would find enough money for a new bike or maybe enough to help the family with our rent. Digging, sifting, turning of piles of dirt yielded little but old bottle caps, nails, and twisted metal. I did find an old bone, and took it home excited that I had found a grave. But Dad told me it was just a dog bone, buried by the neighborhood mutt.

I was reminded of my quest when I read about a man in Austria, who was turning dirt in his back yard and unearthed hundreds of pieces of centuries-old jewelry, some as old as 600 years old.

The trove consisted of more than 200 rings, brooches, ornate belt buckles, gold-plated silver plates and other pieces or fragments, many encrusted with pearls, fossilized coral and other ornaments. 

Where did they come from? Did someone hide them -- and then forget? Were there bandits, going house to house, and the family treasure was hidden?

What's buried in my back yard? I could go about with a shovel, like the nine-year old me, looking for similar loot. They have metal detectors and I could be like one of those intense, lonely men with headphones walking along the shore hoping for a big find. But I'm not interested

And I have enough buried in my life anyway. There are plenty of memories -- things I never want to think about again. Sins I've confessed that still find ways to sneak into my brain at the most in opportune times. Buried back there are words that I wish I had never said, actions I should have never done, bitterness I've tried to hide. 

I'll leave the shovel, hanging in the shed. And just let the back yard stay the way it is. I've spent too long getting my lawn the way it is anyway.

Got a comment?

Featuring posts from the High Calling

It’s my great privilege to feature a few bloggers from the High Calling network of nearly 1,800 members.. You’re going to enjoy these great voices from all around the world.

Christine Sine at GodSpace always writes about provocative subjects that make me think And her post, I Believe in Jesus … Or Do I?, doesn’t disappoint. She’s writing about the Advent season and how we should prepare.

“At no other time of the year are the forces of the secular culture more at odds with what the spirit of God is inviting us to participate in. The spirit calls us to quiet reflection, the world calls us to loud partying. The spirit calls us prepare our lives, the world calls us to indulge in every extravagance.”

Marni Arnold starts with this provocative line. “It is a burden to carry a story.” And it’s true, given the two usual solutions. “One way has been to be so completely honest, that it absolutely obliterates people emotionally,” she observes. The other way, is to completely avert “even the slightest aroma of a dark part of one’s life.” But there might just be a third way. Read the Weight of Testimonies.

The book of Job is not a depressing book about a broken man, according to Sandra Turton. Instead, “it’s a story of amazing empowerment.” Reading her post, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, I found a great summary of applicable lessons. “When the fog is thick and the pain runs deep, hold on and turn only to God.”

Nancy Franson at Out of my Alleged Mind wrote a powerful post about when she slipped and dropped her little 

girl. Although the child wasn’t seriously harmed, Nancy had the realization that she had violated the trust of her daughter, and she reflects in When We Disappoint. “I’ve wept in the knowledge that my actions have caused harm to those I love,” she writes. “I’ve made careless decisions, some of which were outright self-centered and sinful.” Read the entire post here.

Jenn Ferguson at Finding Heaven found a little eternity when she let the soil from her back yard run through her hands. “I found God in the garden. Somehow, He always seems to make Himself known there.” Her end-of-year preparations in the garden provide some interesting reflection on eternity, fellowship, and temptation. Read the Smell of Dirt and you’ll never weed your garden again without some of her thoughtful observations coming to mind.

Matthew Kreider’s Thanksgiving was especially pensive. Nearly two decades ago, he survived a car accident and coma. And this year he was able to minister to a friend who is struggling. He writes to her – and all of us. “Good and bad will converge. And we can rarely hold them together on our own. Yes, it is confusing,” he writes. “But thanksgiving is simple. Thanksgiving is uncomplicated. And it keeps us from babbling. Thanksgiving is a posture which keeps us pointing. Because — no matter what — God is faithful". Read Say Anything on Thanksgiving.

Finnish blogger Mari-Anna Stålnacke writes at Flowing Faith. Her writings are fresh, interesting and insightful. The post, How Much Should We Pray? asks a good, honest question. After all, she observes, we are told to “pray without ceasing.” She rightly surmises that “we can’t manipulate God with our prayers.” But, prayer reminds us that “God is not distant, that we are in partnership and relationship with God Almighty.” So. How much should we pray? Read her full post here for the answer.

I appreciate the tone and encouragement brought by Jana Driggers, who’s Twitter account bio claims that “clutter is her kryptonite.” Read, the Whole Earth Is Filled With His Glory at Grace for My Mess and you’ll see what I see.

Simone Graham is impressed by Pyramids, the Taj Mahal and the Great Wall of China. But what really moves her world is a list of the Seven Wonders of her world. Her first book, her first flight, her husband and kids. A thoroughly enjoyable post at Great Fun 4 Kids.

zDid you like any of these? Any other posts you would like to share?

How to bear good fruit from an imperfect family tree

He was called a bastard son. 

It was outrageous really. His mother was just a young teen. The father was much older and there hadn't been a marriage. The tongues wagged, clicking at the impropriety. And the angel story really was a stretch. The baby's lineage wasn’t much better. It was filled with incredible scandal. Instead of a lush family tree, with lovely branches and perfect leaves, it was crooked.

Go back a few generations and you’d find murder, adultuery, debaucherou and prostitution. Liars and thieves populated the ranks. And while there were good, God-fearing people in his past, it seems that everyone wanted to focus on the faulty predecessors.

The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, they said. The kid probably wouldn't amount to much.

He wasn’t the only one with black sheep in the family pasture.

I’ve been privy to some family history myself lately. With both my parents gone, I’ve been able to look in the dusty trunks, unfolding papers and memories. I’ve scanned hundreds of photos tucked in crumbling albums, trying to catch a glimmer of those that went before me. I’ve learned about my great aunt who was a fashion model, gracing the cover of magazines.  And then there was her sister, who had the distinction of being  a tattoo lady in a circus. And don’t forget my grandmother, who danced in front of sailors for a living.

My grandfather died in a Veteran’s Hospital, his skin yellow with liver failure. You can guess the life he led. He still loved deep, despite his addiction.

My father had a secret marriage and child before he met my mother. I don’t know what happened to either of them. I never even knew they existed, a topic apparently whitewashed from our home.  My parents divorced sometime after I was conceived. And then remarried. I didn’t know that either.

At some point, both my parents found Jesus and tried to raise a family that would be different. They tried so hard to do the right thing. I’m so grateful they did.

This Jesus they found – the one I spoke about earlier with the terrible family history – inserted himself right into this human muck. He came from a pretty good place, and picked imperfection to live a life. That's why he understands all of this. 

There is real beauty in this adoption that I'm experiencing. God loves me as His son and took me in. I’m not the perfect little kid that everyone wishes were theirs. I’m the one with the dirty face, the ugly past and the future that doesn’t look so promising either.

Yet, He takes me as I am. I’m amazed.

It’s a reminder that my earthly bloodline doesn’t have to trump my heavenly destiny. There isn’t some sort of rut that I have to follow just because of my name, or my lineage

I knew a guy who drank heavily – and said it was because his dad did first. And we see it all the time. 

Parents who beat their kids, learning it from their parents. Joblessness, cheating, abuse and adultery often seem to run in the family.

But there is voice that echoes in our heads that says, “Stop it. You don’t have to live that way.” And that goes for my kids too. They don't have to mimic my bad ways either.

The family tree might just be able to produce some good fruit yet.

Care to comment? Click here.

Connecting with Michelle at Hear It On Sunday, Use it on Monday. Thanks to Chad Bruggerman for the sermon inspiration, "Due Date."

The temple of America: Thoughts on consumerism

The Black Friday deaths last week were sad commentaries on our society.

People died because we needed our stuff. They were crushed because of our greed, our consumption and worship of the idol of self. Our culture values material things over people, and those that died were casualtities of our way of life.

We are concerned about gay marriage, the breakdown of the family, and the rise of naked atheism. We preach against them, stand against them and gather forces to oppose these cultural trends.

But rarely do you see the church and those that make it up make a courageous stand against consumerism. The reason is because we are drinking it in. We are addicted to the stuff. On one hand it repulses our hearts, on the other it satisfies our thirst.

What is your thought on consumerism? What should we be doing?