As I awoke at 4:00 AM with the burdens of several families on my heart, I was refreshed by the promise of rain in a flash of lightning and the subsequent roll of thunder.  Eventually I dropped off ... back to sleep ... and overslept about thirty minutes, arising to the sound of the rain.   The thought occurred that it is the steady and consistent rain that will restore my drought stricken lawn and bring back life to those shrubs and vines that have been struggling.   And yes, it is the steady and consistent reign of our Lord Jesus that will restore our lives that often become dried up, brittle, and broken in the absence of His reign.  Bring it!

 I had to think as I got up this morning that the Monday after Easter must have been a pretty special day as well.  Knowing that Jesus has been raised from death and is walking among us ... changes the perspective of the world we live in and our purpose in being here.  I suspect one would walk along the road or through the marketplace, anxiously searching the faces of the crowd to catch a glimpse of the Savior; to see his eyes one more time or to recognize his smile or his distinct voice.  I pray that your Monday after Easter is filled with the same anticipation.

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling ...

At the beginning of this year, elders were asked to choose their "favorite hymn" and then write a short note as to why it was chosen.  Then at each elder meeting, one of the selections is sung and the song is identified as the favorite of someone.  This was my submission.  We sang it tonight at our meeting and it was an emotional and beautiful time for me.


Well Stormy,  this was a more difficult task than I would have thought.  I’ve put this off for some reason, not wanting to be the first to respond and then just taking time to think about it.  I was convinced that “the most meaningful hymn” to me was not a hymn.  There are many contemporary songs that still tug at my heart much more than those of ‘yesteryear’, but then my heart is different now also.  As I turned through the pages of the blue Great Songs of the Church [this was the one that Paul sanctioned wasn’t it?] ... Page after page I felt the tears well up as different titles flashed back to my early years.  For many of those tunes I can close my eyes and still see A.E. “Polly” Wells as he started the first line and graciously backed away from the pulpit mike into the diffused light of the circular window at the College Church of Christ ... All the time his eyes rolling back in his head.  I always thought he would pass out and fall over backwards, but he never gave me that enjoyment.  With every page there was another memory and if I had to do it over again, I might just as easlily  pick another song, but the one I settled on is Jesus is Tenderly Calling.  I think what made this song special to me was that over the years – while I was still in the far country and sharing corn cobs with the pigs, I would hear this song in the background at a bookstore or in an elevator or in a movie.  I heard it one time being played on an organ in a rural church surrounded by wildflowers in the middle of the summer and then heard it at my grandmother’s church while a small congregation drug this through an acapella graveyard.   But in all these versions ... Jesus kept calling me home.

Two years ago I was invited by Caleb to participate in a class based upon this book.  Ever since then I've had it on my heart that I should teach/conduct this class for some of the men at Highland.  So I finally decided to pull the trigger and squeeze one off - the class begins this coming March 20th and will continue for eight weeks.  I feel terribly inadequate in so many ways, yet know there are many men - young and old - who need to know that they are the beloved son and to come to know the Father in ways that they've never experienced.

"Life is about those moments of impact that change our lives forever ..."

"No matter how far life's challenges may carry us apart, we will always find a way back home ..."

I am truly a lucky man ... the first moment of impact was walking into Lynn Smith's house when a bunch of girls were playing cards ... though there must have been ten girls there that evening ... I only saw one ... and I still do.  That has been over thirty eight years ago - if I had it to do over . . . I'd fall in love with her again ... I do every day.

lessons from the flowers

So today I noticed one of my all time favorite wildflowers.  It is actually classified as a weed by most people, but one can actually purchase seeds on-line, so that would make it a cultivated plant wouldn't it.  These plants have bloomed a bit early this year with our Indian Summer we have been experiencing.  It is raining tonight, so they will be blooming with the daffodils soon.  These are Capsella Bursa-Pastura, commonly known as the shepherd's purse.  They have tiny white florets on terminal stalks, but then spread their seed pods in a whorled fashion.  If you'll notice the seed pod is heart shaped.  In fact it's name comes from the fact that it is shaped like the sling purse that shepherd's often wore across their shoulder in ancient Israel.  Legend has it that these flowers did not exist until David killed Goliath with his sling ... and if the seed pod is cut open there are five smooth stones in each one of them.  Go figure.

"false summits"

I don't remember the first time, but I remember dozens of times ...
One of my first memories goes back to a mid-June day on which we attempted the Rio Grande Pyramid.  Leaving early in the morning [and probably not early enough] we made the steep climb out of the Weminuche Pass to the trail leading over to the peak.  There was still significant snow on the side we were ascending, so our path up the mountain was either through snow and steep terrain or through very loose scree ... neither of which provided firm footing and our pattern was "five steps up and slide three back" ... and the day grew hotter.  We all thought we knew where we were going and we could look up and see the blue sky pointing to our goal.  But three times we reached that blue sky only to discover that it was just above a shelf that blocked our view of the summit.  Once as we neared what I thought was the 'top' ... my hat blew off ... my only hat ... and it was getting hot and this was the second day of my trip ... had to drop back down and get it ... about a 300' drop that I had just worked so hard to achieve.  I remember the fatigue and the frustration ... but then ... that was twenty five years ago!   In one sense I cannot believe it has been that long, but on the other hand, I have experienced so many "false summits" since then that I've grown more accustomed to the patience and the endurance necessary to achieve my goal.  Those setbacks in life are usually really 'not' ... but rather detours that allow me to see something I had missed or to better prepare me for the the path to come.  It it necessary to focus on the peak, but life is lived in the valleys and on the side of the mountain.  Those peaks that I've stood upon, bring memories of glorious views and of a great sense of accomplishment.  But I have far more memories of those glimpses of blue sky through the trees and of wild roses and columbines along the trail that I would have missed had I not gone back to get my hat!

2012 ...

Okay, so it's been a while.  Sometimes when I seem to get caught up ... I take time to reflect ... and yes, I should do that much more often.  So I'm thinking now - in retrospect - of Christmas morning 2011 ... awakening before everyone else and strapping on a pair of snowshoes and in the crispness of a three degree morning - walked about a half mile down a creek beside our cabin in the Wolf Creek area of southern Colorado.  Many thoughts filled my head that morning... thoughts of blessings realized and true wonder as I listened to the snow-laden aspens creak disrupting the silence of sound absorbed by snow.  I paused for a few moments to catch my breath and spoke the following from memory.  That was a merry Christmas.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


Thank you Robert Frost ... I shall not forget.