less restless, for sure.

I HEARD THE IMPACT and saw the cracks stretching across. For a moment, I grieved. But then I forgot, and then I let go.

The afternoon absorbing laughter, the sights of life happening with my own eyes - not looking for camera angle or preparing life for others’ eyes - all uninterrupted, as it should be. The park opened up to us new, as our stage of memories waiting to be had, in the form of four of us kicking a soccer ball as straight as a rainbow. And no one else knew about it - no likes, no shares, no comments. Just us together running in circles binding us close.

For weeks, the cracks on my phone screen stayed and so did my attention.

And then the shattered pieces began to fall to the ground.

A few days after getting a new phone with a seamless screen, I dropped it into a sink filled with water. We were rushing to leave our house as a week of vacation awaited us - one week nestled in the hill country of Texas, quiet and renewing. The new phone existed apart from me in a bag of rice for three days. We both rested from each other and again, I found life more vibrant and lasting without the need to tell anyone else about our adventures and memories. When it came time to check for signs of technology life, I pulled the phone out, powered it on, gave it a quick examination to ensure it functioned fully, which it did . . . and then stored it away apart from me, as it should be.

Tucked away in my mind forever lives mental images, without filters and witty quips, of smiles, a bungalow Robert Plant recently stayed in - so it goes, the famed Enchanted Rock, hummingbirds, a prayer labyrinth we couldn’t quite figure out, a friendly Great Pyrenees named Simon who toured us around the vineyard he protects, paddle boarding on the Frio River and conversations with friends that lifted our souls to good health. All without my phone.

What I noticed since my phone first cracked and especially during my week apart was that life is like a river rushing. I can either play observer documenting its movement in comments and visuals and reading about facts on how to think about the river rushing, or I can jump right in. I can tell you, my family would rather me in the water. Sometimes they need me in the water to call them in from the banks, too.

Life won’t wait and the pictures won’t be suffice. Live the adventure together, and the family will grow and their futures will secure and their smiles will be sincerer and your heart will be fuller . . . and you will be less restless, for sure.

of the rebirth kind.

"The moments when earth meet sky in our lives usually occur when we are most vulnerable - out of answers and explanations, and in need of something bigger. Those are moments that define us . . . or rather, redefine us."

(an excerpt from, 'A Brooding Storm,' 'Earth and Sky: a beautiful collision of grace and grief')

(image by Reji, licensed under CC by 2.0)

suffer slow.

THERE WE WERE. We were all there, in the same place, at the same time – little sprigs slowly opening to warmth again. It takes time to be okay again, and that’s just fine.

The speed in which some heal is ungodly. Sprinting through darkened maligned days to reach Healed can be quite misleading and eventually, even devastating. Our culture is obsessed with quick okay, dismissing suffering as only the unjust are also quick to miss the bounty washed ashore by those same waves, which inexplicably tossed wildly. The experience gained of lasting through the storm doesn’t make one better, nor stronger, but indeed braver. Often, it is for comfort’s sake that we find quick okays, leaving us strangers to courage. Curled up in family form, we quieted as the movie began. Little quip whispers recalling favorite scenes, not too dissimilar from scenes in their own little lives, hummed from each of our daughters. The mother dies. The father shuffle steps through days. Strewn by grief they learn to be gathered by hope. Re-founded by wonder and love. Somewhere along the way, the little girl gives announcement to her family’s slow rise again, “We bought a zoo!”

My favorite line from the movie rests in words shared between father and child: “You know, sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage. Just literally twenty seconds of embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it.”

She bends heavy under weight, drooped by loss and still not whole – a far way off still, I’d say. More than the other two, our middle daughter still quakes at the thought of loss. As a direct result, she’s an over-achiever bewitched by her doing. That is, what she can do and cannot do. When she succeeds and excels, she soars like dawn filling the slumbering morning sky, and in times she fails, shovels herself into the ground as if hiding from loss. Then her heart needs to hear what her mind will not tell it – that she is not okay and that will forever be okay.

Sitting next to her, I could see her eyes hide. She was stuck and losing again. This time, a math problem was the taker and she was convinced she couldn’t do it. Tears swelled to a small pour as I watched her protect herself again. Suffering in the form of loss has defined her and conditioned her fearful at the sight of loss again. Sometimes a math problem can remind her of death and the fear of loss, as well as anything else.

CONTINUE READING AT DEEPER STORY -

featured image: “Heal?” by Adam licensed under CC BY 2.0

Coffee and words, almost.

Another Saturday. Another cup of coffee. Perfect.

It's oddly quiet around our house this particular Saturday, as our daughters are away with family enjoying their roots and making memories. I love that for them, but it is an oddly quietness that takes me a day or two to adjust to. Alas, more reading, writing and coffee. I guess a good benefit to me and the mrs being a solo duo for a short stretch is date night. Tonight, we live as the young and venture downtown to a concert - The Neighbourhood. If you know, you know. They're a good band.

So it goes. (I've been in a Vonnegut state of mind as of late.)

Here's what seems interesting this quiet Saturday morning:

Because it's important to know your history, folks.

Here's a book review written by a friend of ours. Her review gives good preview of what looks to be an interesting read on gender roles. The book is written by a freshman author, no less.

While perusing the online magazine, I stumbled across this article on the effects of sexualizing children.  Along with other questions she poses here, I'm particularly wrestling with Becker in regard to this one:  What would it look like for the church to care for transgender people—whose rates of depression and violence indicate that they have been beaten up along the way—in the same manner that the Samaritan cared for the man by the side of the road?

Oh, and hallelujah to this news! 

And lastly, with a short couple days of vacation looming, I'm feeling like this.

Here's to you, friends. Take to Saturday with adventurous abandon!

Interruptions, or a prisoner to desire

I am prone to quick irritability when interruptions disrupt my focus.

Working out of a home office provides for countless interruptions throughout the day, especially during summer months and a house full of anxious kids.

What am I communicating to those I love when I am bothered by their need of my time?

Interruptions pull me out of my work into opportunity. These opportunities are the seedbed of growth and often weigh far greater than the work I’m focused on in the moment. Constant interruptions by my children may mean I have not given sufficient instruction about boundaries and the importance of focus. All good work requires both defined boundaries to work in and ample focus directed at the work in front of you. If I nurse the habit of giving in to their interruptions every time, I devalue the importance of doing good work and do not communicate well with them about what I need. The idea that their needs being met and attended to with immediacy are set as paramount, thereby setting the expectation going forward that when they need or want something, they must receive it then and there. This is the red-faced screaming toddler buckled into the supermarket buggy reaching for the candy or the toy in sight, and the petulant child demanding their way and your allegiance in the disagreement with their siblings, and also, the random inquisitor wanting time and answers to thoughts in real time. All of these need your attention, but the time in which you give response is just as important as the response itself.

The most vociferous of sounds pierced the quiet of evening and reached ear-penetrating levels causing me to wonder just how such a small, sweet little baby of a girl could produce such sound. It was impressive to say the least and quite wearing on my patience to say the most. Her crying was more than need; it was demand. What she wanted was for me to swoop in and lift her from her barred crib holding her in darkness. What she need, what I needed, too, was for her to learn to sleep in the comfort of her own crib. For weeks, I rescued her on demand, reinforcing the fact that I’d be there upon her beckoning call. As soon as she felt lifted from her horrid little crib, all was right and well. In fact, she’d often quit crying so quickly that I was convinced she knew what she was doing. And she did. Because of my quick response, she knew to expect what she desired with immediacy. The problem was my growing lack of sleep and ability to focus and irritability during the day because of spontaneous hang out sessions in the middle of the night. I’d tell myself that as an infant, she needed to be cared for well and not feel alone, and in doing so, I made myself prisoner to her desire – an infant. In a moment struck by weariness and lucidity, I suddenly switched gears on her and her demands. The first time she was allowed to cry unattended to, I nervously waited, hand hovering above the doorknob to her room wondering if my waiting would cause harm. I was told to wait a solid seven minutes before consoling her. This would teach her to fall back asleep each time she woke through the night, and also help her to feel secure and comfortable in the warmth of her crib in the safety of our home. For as demanding as she had been, she was a quick learner and within a week or so was sleeping cozily.

Interruptions hold great opportunity to set aright both expectation and desire.  For me to accomplish all that I need to get done and care well for those I love, I must learn to respond thoughtfully, not irritably, to the opportunity within interruption, thus both respecting the work I must do and the love I must give.

coffee and words, almost.

Happy 5th of July!! Hopefully you enjoyed the company of friends, warmth of sun and good ol' freedom. Our home filled with faces we're growing to love more and more each day. Each with a story that both intrigues me and encourages me closer to Christ; each in their own way. The grill filled us and the pool cooled us - I am thoroughly thankful for days as these. More so, for the faces and hearts these days are spent with.

Here are a few reads I hope you enjoy with your second or third cup of dark glory: 

Ever wonder why our brain ticks a certain way?

Speaking of how our brains work, this experiment gives case to our apparent issue with idle time.

The Dangerdust duo, however, do not have issue with idle time, or breaking and entering.

Which brings me to these pictures I enjoy looking at whilst sipping steaming coffee.

And now, a bit of faith formative, substantive food for your brain to process in idle time. Love Chesterton!

And lastly, get holy and get off the couch!

Baseball as a Functional Theology of Suffering.

My feet squared, tipped all too slightly to threaten, and if anything, cued them in that I was half committed and mostly unsure.

The dust lifted only to fall right back in its place not too undisturbed - not the same effect as those who mean to be there fully. Hopeful cheers arose from behind. Slurred sounds caught the corner of my ear as my coach, too, hoped I’d connect.

I would not hit the ball then. I knew it before I even cocked the bat behind my right shoulder. The swing would be valiant and the follow through not all that bad, but I would miss the whole moment as my eyes would tighten shut when it mattered most. A good opportunity would be missed, as would two more. And then the dugout where I watched.

The glory is in the seeing.

My dad used to tell me often, “You’ll never hit a ball you don’t see. Keep your eyes open until you feel the contact.” Mind you, he’d tell me this as he wildly swung a baseball attached to a 12-foot rope round and round with intimidating force, but he meant all the well in the world. Each time the ball whirled by, my eyes closed tight, he repeated the instruction and didn’t stop swinging the ball. I swear he’d swing faster each time as if to push the fear right out of me. 

What he didn’t tell me outright, I learned deep within then - the longer you stand there, the less fear holds.

Suffering speaks through the dark of our heart, in the spaces we push it into and try to manage and hide and make pretty enough for us to seem okay still.

I’ll bet you’re a tinge more messed up than you allow us to believe, a bit more hidden than most know, hidden behind books to help and schedules to buffer and words to deflect true conversation. We live busy with the wondering about the next day all while our eyes remained closed to the day whirling just past us. That’s the effect of suffering: moments buried. Truth is, life will always hold all potential to spoil in the flicker of a moment. Everyone of us suffers, to different levels, no doubt, but suffering finds us all. Inexplicably bad things happen to us and yet life keeps whirling by in rhythm of dusk and dawn. Dawn, another promise echoing on repeat to keep your eyes open and make contact. Swing again and again and another time and again. Keep your eyes open until you feel the contact, the ball meeting the bat and your life connecting to day again. Swing. 

How easily suffering pushes the strongest of us to the side, boasting the circumstance unbearable and forever. But life is now, in this pitch and this swing. Your eyes must stay open, as must your heart to trust God. No matter the suffering - no matter - dawn will always swallow the night and light will always displace dark. This is the truth that found me sinking in suffering, tangled in fractured thoughts and bewildered by loss.

The glory is in the seeing - seeing the dawn new and promised pushing in whether welcomed or not. God was in my dad that day swinging wildly. It was then I learned to keep my eyes open expectantly until I made contact again.