Blog
For so long, I resisted the temptation to weigh in on all the discussion (an intriguing blend of vitriol and support) about Phil Robertson and the A & E dust up over Duck Dynasty. However, resisting temptation isn’t always one of my strong suits. So, here goes.
I’m troubled.
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Worship Band by Roots Worship Arts Academy
If Emerson revealed truth, my mind might be gargantuan: “Foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds.” Apart from hat size, paradox prevails in my life. Just last week we explored how we can be “Cursed by Quality,” that a certain level of quality in worship may build expectations of regularity, and if the leaders don’t continue on that level, we experience frustration instead of ecstacy. But let’s flip the coin, because we can also be paradoxically “Blessed by Quality.”
The worship team at our church is good. Very good...
Read MorePhoto by Greg Sidders
Wednesday. The day before Thanksgiving. Off from school because of jury duty, but they rescheduled, so I'm grading essays. Some random sound outside my study window made me raise the blind (closed due to earlier morning glare), and revealed a gorgeous fall day, a few wispy clouds to accent the blue sky, colorful liquid amber leaves. Life is good. God is good. I'm...thankful.
I put that paragraph on Facebook this past week, and it generated a surprising response. So, after some pondering, I thought I’d explore the concept.
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The Bike and the Biker
A hot August night outside Beaumont TX may qualify as one of the worst of my life. I’d cruised out of New Orleans earlier that day, on a chopped ’73 Honda 750. For old riders who remember “Easy Rider,” yeah, it had a metal flake flag painted on the tank and covers. The fuzzy pic above is from earlier on the same trip, and that’s me in the red tank and bushy red beard. I took off on the trip with no notice and fewer plans. Just a backpack with a few clothes, a sleeping bag, a poncho for a ground cloth, and no tent. That last omission proved problematic. The heat and humidity kept me from getting in the bag, but the mosquitoes and unknown biting Southern bugs put me back in. So I gave up about 3 am, and headed west to El Paso.
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Image from Massage Center, Thousand Oaks
The core group of this summer’s ride to Glacier National Park broke up in Redding, in north California. Jerry spun off the day before near his home in Oregon; Brad got released from the hospital after his collision with a deer, and he and Mick stayed a few days to celebrate the birthday of Brad’s dad, who was also Mick’s brother-in-law. I headed south alone for the last 600 mile leg.
Now, I love riding, but at the end of a trip the desire to get home grows, and I was ready to see my wife and our cats. Notice the order, OK? So I pulled out about 4:30 in the darkness before dawn, and hit the garage door remote about 2:30. 10 hours and 600 miles is a good day’s ride, but even with the sport touring bike my body felt it. And, I knew the solution.
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Blue Angel Wings, by redbubble.com
Sunrise carried beautiful conditions into our Conejo Valley on Friday. At about 6 AM, walking out to get the morning paper, I found clear, calm blue skies, and a temperate temperature. Why so many move to SoCal. By 10 AM, everything changed. The typical slight southwest wind reversed itself into a Santa Ana condition, a high gale coming from the northeast, with gusts up to 70 mph.
And I was headed into the wind that afternoon...
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Enjoy a cold one, image from wikipedia
In the early 70’s, 9 of us took a mission trip to Penasco, NM, just outside of Taos. One Saturday afternoon, the local lady, Laura, who set up the trip came by with a six pack of beer to relax with us. She offered a beer to one of the group, who graciously declined. As did the next. And the next.
With each, Laura seemed to take the decline as rejection; you could see her shrink within herself. Back in the legalistic day, Christians didn’t drink. Shouldn’t drink. Couldn’t drink, and still be viewed as a good Christian. And, many of our group genuinely didn’t indulge out of preference, not legalism. But Laura didn’t seem to make that distinction.
I did indulge, but didn’t feel the urge then. But I popped out, “Laura, I’d love one.”
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A Scary Time, Photo by Danziger
Snick. With the push of a button, the garage door descended. Snick. With another button, my new acquisition, a 2005 Honda ST1300, purred into life. By day’s end, we rode 340 miles through the mountains and valleys and beaches, the ranches and farms and cities of Ventura and Kern Counties. But now all of us lay face down, kissing concrete, with multiple pistols pointed at our heads, with tense faces behind them.
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