M R Ducks!

Whose duck is it, anyway?

We'd spent an entire morning in our make-shift blind on the mud flats at the east end of the high mountain reservoir the day before. Yes, a quiet day together outside. "Restful" to be sure. But of course, that was not the goal of the outing. In spite of our pre-dawn arrival, our carefully constructed, fully camouflaged "hide," and strategically spread decoys, the ducks just weren't coming in. A couple times a flock of some other (tiny, inedible) species came and fed from the lake-grass under our bobbing, plastic mallards. But the object of our quest flew by just out of range. As if they somehow knew that 20 ducks floating contentedly in the shallows was just too good to be true.

So the next morning, we headed to the river that feeds the reservoir. As we arrived at the west gate in "plenty" of time before opening, we were a bit daunted to find that we were not to be the first in line. Indeed, a monster truck full of what appeared to be professional duck killers, had come all the way from Alabama to snake our precious few waterfowl from we desperate Coloradans. As we waited in the dark for the park employee to come and unlock the gate at the appointed time, what looked like a commando of Marines were gearing up in state-of-the-art hunting equipment. They might have been here to film something for a Cabella's TV special. When we were finally released into the parking lot, they jumped out with weapons loaded, and literally RAN the mile long trail down to the inlet. Figuring we were surely out-gunned, my dog and I headed up-river.

We stealthily worked the river, hoping to "jump-shoot" some early risers. But just as the morning sun was beginning to peek over the eastern mountain range, we saw high in the pale morning sky, two large flocks of ducks leaving the reservoir; It had been our first sub-freezing night, and the locals were headed south. But it wasn't yet cold enough in Wyoming, for them to send us any of theirs. It was gonna be another quiet day.

Finding nothing, we headed back down the river toward the reservoir. We noted from a polite distance that the well-equipped, physically superior, super-aggressive, Crimson Tide, had set out a large spread of... goose decoys. Ha! Geese don't arrive for  at least another month,! But the spread was pretty impressive, and well-placed in what would be ideal water-fowl habitat. So we hunkered down in some tall grass just over a berm from them, and hoped to perhaps shoot "clean-up," might any ducks accidentally come into their spread, then perchance escape their assault. We didn't have to wait long.

"Blam! Blam" shattered the early morning silence. Then, sure enough, a "winged" Merganser comes erratically "flying" over the thick, riverside willows. It was getting away, wobbling westward in pain, it would soon die alone somewhere up-river. Even if you don't believe in Natural Selection, this dumb bird should have left with his flock-mates, right? Now he was doomed to be scavenged by ravens or perhaps a desperate coyote. Being a compassionate sort, I blasted it out of the sky. It splashed down into the dark river. I sent my faithful, four-legged partner to fetch it. She was born for this, right?

She lept into the fast flowing water, and had to reset her course as the current swept the flopping mess downstream. She quickly caught up to it, but was hesitant to grab the blood-spattered, beak-snapping, wad of feathers. With a little encouragement, she finally grabbed it, and dutifully paddled back to my booted feet on shore. She released it to my hand, just like we'd practiced a thousand times, shook the cold water from her fur, and sat down with a very self-satisfied grin.

Before I could get out my camera for a victory pic, rustling in the willows on the hill soon delivered a camo-clad teen, carrying a very expensive, brand new shot-gun. (OK, so they weren't all huge Marines as earlier perceived.) He stopped on the far shore, taking in the scene. I quickly explained that it hadn't been dead, that I'd finished it off, and my dog kept it from drifting away towards Pueblo. Reluctantly, with all the class and manners you'd expect from a Southern youth, he replied, "Well, I guess it's yours, sir." He then asked, "What is it?" (Not a goose.) I handed it back to my dog, and encouraged her to bring it to him for a look. She lightly gripped the now fully dead duck in her mouth, and swam it over to him. (Yeah, I was impressed, too.) He examined it. Blessed and encouraged my gifted dog. Then, assuming the delivery had implied a gift, he said, "Thank you sir. It was my first bird."

Before I could think it through, I accidentally blurted out, "Congratulations. Enjoy it!" It was time for us to head to church. No more birds seen or shot.

Not technically "skunked," but still coming home without any meat, I still wonder, "Who's bird should that have been?" What do you think?

The Miracle of 6:30

I love getting up just before the sun. 

The house is uncharacteristically quiet. The big road behind us is calm. The neighborhood is still asleep. Even the dogs are still dozing. This hour beckons me. I even think about it before I go to bed at night. Relishing the personal time. Connecting-with-God time. Pondering. Journaling. Praying. Refueling. I put on the coffee, foam up some milk, pour the dark brew in my favorite stoneware mug, then settle in to my comfy chair near a window and by the fireplace... Are you feeling it?

This day, in my slow wanderings with Jesus through the second Gospel, I arrive at Mark 6:30. Jesus and the disciples have had an intense period of ministry. They are ready for some time away from the crowds and demands. They climb into a boat, and sneak off to a secluded cove. Begining to unwind, as they consider the time ahead. They're really looking forward to some quiet, R&R. Alone. Right?

But the hoards are so zealous to be near Jesus, they run along the shore, taking shortcuts over hills and creeks, and are waiting at this "secret" place when the guys arrive. Can you imagine the frustration? The sense of let-down and disappointment?

By now it's 6:30am, and the Colorado sun is coming up. Suddenly, The Kid's bedroom door bursts opens, and out pops our nine year old; all spunk and smiles. (I love that she most often wakes up in this way. But prefer that it be- I don't know- AN HOUR LATER?!) She comes bouncing across the living room to me, and asks if I want her to make us some oatmeal. I force a smile, and tell her that would be delightful. She skips to the kitchen. Pots and pans crash. The pantry door slams. She soon announces, "I'm going to need your help reading the instructions!" Not satisfied with instant- and the simplicity of the hot water dispenser- she wants to make it from scratch on the stove; like Grammy does. There goes my magic hour.

Thinly masking my impatience, I get her started, then try to get back into The Word; totally relating to the situation in which our Hero finds Himself. If you know the story, you're already smiling. Jesus' response to the major interruption of solitude for His weary group, is not irritation or rejection. Instead He feels compassion. Compassion! He goes on to teach the crowd what they long and need to hear. Then later (6:30pm?) feeds all 5000 of them a delightful dinner of fish and bread. But to me- in my current state- the real miracle that day was His compassion in the face of personal loss.

I humbly admit that this was not my initial response at having my personal retreat hour revoked. But always seeking to follow His example, I put down my books and pen, and joined The Kid for breakfast. Telling her all she longs and needs to hear: That she is a treasure, and worth every bit of my attention and affection. (Isn't that what Jesus told His flock that day?) There will be more quiet mornings alone. But not many with this God-given blessing.

Futuristic Targeted Advertizing?

Creepy shades of that old Tom Cruise movie: "Minority Report"

To get this, it would help if you remember the movie from 2002. I'm not sure I ever got the point of it, but one thing I do remember from this science fiction noir film, was how sophisticated and computerized everything was. One scene that sticks in my memory, is when our hero, John Anderton, is walking down a crowded walkway. A camera on the ceiling scans his eyes, the "Big Brother-type" computer pulls up his preferences, and a voice begins to "target-advertise" to him. "Your favorite jeans are on sale..." (Haunting how similar this is to certain search engines and social media formats.)

So, I've just sat down at a sunny coffee shop cafe with my beautiful daughter. Sipping ice coffees and celebrating her new job. BTW, everybody has their "talk zone." For some, it's right before they fall asleep. For others its on the phone while driving (Still legal in 45 states!) For my adult daughter it's coffee shops. The chatty environment, the feel of a "date," and the imagined privacy (as compared to a home with family around.) The caffeine helps too.

Suddenly, my phone registers an e-mail. It's sitting right on the table, so I glance over at it. It's a personalized ad from the sandwich shop right next door to the cafe!

"How did they even  know I'm here?!" I exclaim.

My daughter quips, "Yeah. It's just like Tom Cruise in Minority Report!" (I love having a well-cultured kid.)

You should know that one of the things I do in my present job, is teach people how to minimize their electronic foot-print. Simple things like not leaving your "Location Services" beacon running is basic. Mine is off, of course. How did they do it?! This is really disturbing!

My mind is rummaging through all kinds of conspiracy theories, as I further examine the apparent location-activated, "group-on."

My amazement and activist adrenaline finally begins to subside as I realize this is actually nothing more than a pre-ordering opportunity for a catered lunch meeting I'm attending next week. The convener of the gathering had given them my email address. The timing of it's arrival was purely coincidental. Got a good chuckle at my suspicious-self. Okay. Yes please. I'll have the cookie too.

Lessons from the Hearth

- Analogies observed through tending the Wood Stove

Proximity

Logs need to be close together – yet with just the right amount of space between them - to really burn well. If they get too far apart, the fire goes out, and the logs grow cold. And the best way to get a new log going, is to put it up against one that’s already burning well. Reminds me of life in Community.

Variety

The quick-starting pieces of wood that you put in first (kindling), play a very important role. They get things started, and warm up the fire-box. But you will also need to add other, thicker, slower burning logs. It is these characteristics that will sustain a long, hot burn. Kind of like building a work-team.

Build, then Trust.

When selecting the right components to lay a new fire, it is important to take into account all you know about thermodynamics; building it carefully. Trying to predict what will create the best possible base fire. Then you’ve got to light it in just the right places, and make sure it has just enough air. You take special care to be as accurate as you can be. Because once the stove door is closed, all the smoke builds up in the fire box. Until it gains enough heat to blast up the cold chimney. You cannot open the door at this point, to correct anything. Sometimes you watch with dismay, as a piece of wood shifts, and falls away from the burning paper and other sticks. The fire starts to falter. You’re tempted to open the door and fix it, but that would be a mistake- creating a house full of smoke that would be nearly impossible to ever completely get rid of. You’ve got to wait it out; watching and hoping that the rest of your system compensates for this unpredicted development. 

Kind of like launching young adult children into independence.

Wood Type

Wood from trees that grow fast, don’t burn very hot? They are certainly wonderful additions to a landscape; providing shade sooner than most newly planted trees. But it is the slow-growing oak, or nut or fruit trees- and other hard woods- that create the most heat in the fireplace. They have a higher “kindling point,” (the temperature at which they’ll ignite), but they burn long and hot, once they get going. And, by the way, the smoke from quick-burning, low temperature logs leaves a gunky, crusty film in the chimney- creosote. It has to be scraped away periodically, or it can catch fire up inside the chimney! Kind of like two kinds of people: those who have never suffered in life, and those who have. Those who have led peaceful, healthy unruffled lives can be quite pleasant, fun, and entertaining. But those who’ve been through hardship – if they’ve processed it well – will be the ones who can really help others over the long haul; journeying through difficulty with empathy, and authority.

Aesthetics vs. Effectiveness

Sometimes the best-looking fire does not end up burning as hot as those in the house might need. People may be kind enough to be complementary of its symmetry and dancing light, but if they’re cold, and hoping to warm up, what they really need is a hot fire, not a pretty one! There are certainly aesthetic occasions for a good-looking, yet inefficient fire. But the builder and tender needs to be clear on the purpose. How many other areas of life are like that? Food, clothing, automobiles… Sure, pretty is nice. But as the architect says, “Form follows Function.” Reminds me of trying to make a difference among the poor. It’s important to know the actual, under-lying issues, so we can best address them. Not merely meeting people's presenting needs with service that seems good, yet fails to meet the long-term, greater need.

But now this is beginning to look like blog-fuel for another day…

Angry Birds; and Chipmunks too!

Hummingbirds are beautiful and amazing to observe. Periodically, I’ll prepare some sugar water and put it in the feeder, just to enjoy their rich colors and spectacular aerodynamics. Recently, I’d let their feeder run dry. Instead of humming at our red plastic flowers one Saturday morning, they hovered by the window near where I was sipping my coffee; glaring at me. They had that look on their little faces that said, “Hey, human! Where’s our food?!”

Later in the day, I was splitting firewood, and in the process moved a pile of logs that had been seasoning against a stump for about a year. I’d seen chipmunks scurry in and out of the wood pile, perhaps nesting or storing food in the protected crevices. As I sat back to admire my newly filled rack of firewood, and enjoy the pungent smell of fresh-split fir in the air, one of the little critters scampered to the top of the tree stump, and began chattering in my direction. “What have you done to our handy storage place?!”

In a brief, but riveting sermonette, I reminded my little forest friends that “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away.” More specifically, Jesus pointed out that God feeds birds, and provides holes for ground-dwelling varmints (i.e. foxes.) “Your Creator has given you all you need!” I proclaimed as they listened intently. “Don’t get mad at me when a luxury is denied! Perhaps you need to rediscover God’s design for your life.”

Then I reflected on God’s provision for me. He promises to take care of us, and most often (in America) does so with amazing bounty and abundance. I realize that I often grow to depend upon- even expect- His lavish blessings. When they are changed, diminished, or removed I get frustrated or sometimes angry. 

But His goal for us is holiness, not happiness. If removing a comfort-prop makes us depend more upon Him, that frustration can move us in the right direction! May we learn the Eternal truth that disappointment is often His appointments. A blessing removed, could represent an opportunity for a closer walk with our Creator and Lord.

God does not actually promise financial abundance, perfect health, and story-book families. He promises to journey with us, and to meet our needs as we put our lives fully in His hands.

Finding your way on the “Blue Highway”

Even when your Map App. leads you astray

We were enjoying the “Blue Highways” across America’s Northwestern states. (Named for the color of the lines on old paper maps. Remember those?) Two lane roller-coasters through the mountains, high plains, and- on this hot day- rolling wheat fields of Idaho. (Not just potatoes anymore!) Way more interesting than Interstate Highways with their handy Rest Areas and predictable Truck Stops.
But the road less traveled can a little tricky to navigate at times.

I knew exactly where we were headed. We were pulling our little camper from Lewiston to Portland. I simply entered the address in my smart phone’s map application, plopped it on the dashboard, then blithely followed the arrows and friendly verbal commands. Spectacular scenery. Fascinating little towns. Delightful.

Then we came to a cross-roads. A T-intersection, actually. The road sign offered a choice between two middle-sized towns that I’d heard of, but wasn't sure which was on-the-way to our ultimate destination. “Siri” (We call any and all vocal emanations from The Phone “Siri.”) said, “Turn right in fifty feet.” My truck instrument indicated that would be to the North. We were headed West. Hmmm… “Okay, you’re the expert.” We turned North.

The rolling hills were getting pretty steep. I stopped at the crest of one, and re-entered our destination to be sure The Map App “knew” clearly where our dinner meeting was tonight. “Turn left in five hundred feet.” Hmmm… naught but farm roads out here, but, “Okay. You’re the expert.” We followed the small, once-paved farm road for a while. Then shortly, “Turn Left in one hundred feet.” “Oh. I see where you’re going with this.” A well maintained dirt road, soon deteriorating to a poorly maintained service road that got steeper, and gravely-er as we chugged up a steep incline; tires slipping, passengers tensing. 

Then, at the ridge, we’re greeted by an angry sign: “Authorized Vehicles Only – Trespassers will be Prosecuted!” 

We found ourselves in the midst of a wind-turbine-farm. It was fascinating to be so close among them. (Still baffled that a large bird that can evade shot-pellets traveling at 1300 feet per second, could get killed by a giant fan moving absurdly slowly by comparison?!)

Like many guys, I hate to go back. (What a waste of time and gas, right?) The main highway must be just ahead. But with the dirt road narrowing, the truck and trailer slipping, and two increasingly uncomfortable passengers- worried about getting hung up in a ditch with no civilization (or phone signal) nearby- I strenuously negotiated a 5-point U-turn, and eventually worked my way back to that blessed T-intersection. “Go straight to Walawala.” “Hey! That sounds interesting…”

What can we learn from this little side-track travel-adventure? Firstly, I was putting my trust in a Map App, without verification from other sources. (After laughing at my story, a friend in Portland suggested a better Map App. that starts with G.) I didn’t even have a paper map from which I could get an overview of my journey; and perhaps note alternate routes if necessary. (I couldn't decide which state(s) to buy!) Neither did I have any good landmarks in mind that might help verify my route. Knowing what mountains, rivers, or towns that would be on our route, could have served as guide posts and “hand-rails” along the way. I would never venture into the back-country without a full awareness of these components. But I was trusting that I could just follow The Expert. "Siri."

How are we defining success? We need to understand God’s definition of what is important in life. Why are any of us actually here? Then fully grasp in general terms, what it looks like to be Jesus’ Disciple. And learn what “Good Fruit” tastes like. Love, Joy, Peace, etc. These important perspectives can  only come from intentional study of God’s Word, and frequent, honest interaction in healthy Christian community. These establish the “big picture” in our hearts and minds. Then the Holy Spirit can customize it for us.

Secondly, for all her confident directions, “Siri” appears to be an “Indirect Communicator.” Rather than admit, “Oops. I said ‘right,’ when I should have said ‘left.’ Please turn around and go the other way.” She quietly “re-routed,” and led me on what seemed to her to be an acceptable “work-around” (a giant, looping U-turn.) She was obviously unaware of the current conditions and actual nature of the roads she suggested.

From whom are we getting direction? How often does this happen in our lives? We find ourselves in unknown territory, and needing direction, and we put our trust in an “expert” for advice or guidance, who doesn’t fully know or care about our personal journey; or God’s unique plan in it. An author? A talk-show host? Even a loving friend? But none know or love us as much as The Lord. It may take practice to hear His voice, but He alone is equipped and caring enough to lead you on the unique path that will fulfill His greatest purposes in, for, and through you.

Getting personal…

On a few different fronts in our lives right now, my wife and I are facing uncharted waters. Not only has our family never been along this way before, we do not know of anyone else who has faced any of these unique situations with the same variables and complexities as the ones we face. Loving friends (and impersonal authors and up-front speakers) have all kinds of “expert” advice for each scenario. But we have learned that prayerful pursuit of God’s way (both individually, and together) is our only way to successfully navigate the Blue Highways in our lives.

Repetition, Ruts, and Rocks

                                    From August 2012

2 Sam 22 (a psalm)

When the rains came, we all rejoiced. First, some really “oddly” timed ones that helped stop the horrific Waldo Canyon blaze. (Thank you merciful Savior!) Then the “normal” rhythm of Colorado Summers kicked in, and we got dumped on almost every afternoon for a couple weeks. (Thank you Faithful Creator!) Refreshing in so many ways. Cleaned the air and greened up the mountains. By August we’d had so much rain that the fire bans were lifted in our county. Happy campers and woodsmen rejoiced.

Unfortunately, the majority of roads in our mountain county are not paved. Including those to our home. Most notably about 100 yards of “owner-maintained” driveway. Some of it rather steep. As water hits the packed surface of rocky soil, it heads downhill; taking the path of least resistance. Picking up speed it gathers dirt, sand, and gravel as it goes, and eventually creates erosion; Grooves of habit to which all future storm water will gravitate, and thereby increase the ruts.

This year, these ruts got to such a depth (12” deep and 12” wide) that I became concerned for some incoming guests. Visitors coming from the Mid-West for a much needed break in our cool, quiet mountains. I assumed they’d come in a sedan or mini-van (rather than an SUV most common in Colorado), and could easily bottom-out in these treacherous, tire-sucking, canyons.

I asked a few mountain buddies what they do about driveway erosion. One guy in the next valley- who runs a large retreat center- said, he borrows a tractor, and pushes dirt back up the hill and into the ruts several times a year. But even if packed down, the rains just keep washing the back-fill away. An older, nearby neighbor said he tosses fist-sized rocks from around his lot into the grooves. This seems to slow down the water, and if he gets enough of them to nearly fill the ruts, even his wife’s low-slung sedan can traverse the area without damage. His methodical method of rock placement worked!

I can picture my retired friend, taking his dogs out at various times through his sedentary days. Casually picking up a few rocks each time, and rolling them down the driveway until they land in a rut. A fun cross between Bocce Ball and Corn Hole! They fill up eventually. Well, I don’t have that kind of lifestyle, and my guests were already on their way! I needed a faster fix. I bought a ton of 2-4” Pikes Peak granite, and spent a day and a half shoveling, kicking, and even hand-placing stones into the long, deep ruts of our driveway.

In my slow, meditative Bible reading, the passage I arrived at this morning was David’s psalm as recorded in 2 Samuel 22. God is our rock. A refuge from our enemies. David the warrior knew well the role of rocks, and cliffs, and caves in escaping his enemies. But “Who is my enemy,” I wondered. No humans that I can think of. But there is the Enemy of my Soul. Jesus has conquered him, and those in Christ are empowered to be victorious over all the Devil’s schemes. But how does that work in the nitty-gritty of each day?

Quite often, The Enemy’s schemes against me are demonstrated through repetitive negative messages delivered by the world, or even my own mind. They are not uplifting, God-honoring, or strengthening. They tend to lead my heart downhill. And like water on dirt, they eventually develop ever-deepening paths of their own; completing their route to failure (doubt, discouragement, despair) more quickly each time. Common encouragements from loved-ones, or “positive thinking” may cover the negative emotion for a time, but the next “rain” washes that fluff away in a flash.

But God- as our rock and refuge- has a more substantive response to our mental erosion. His truths are immutable. His character impeccable. His love for us unshakable. These are the stones we need to place into our mental ruts!

So as I methodically repaired the canyons in my driveway today, I thought about more intentionally putting the Truths of God into my mind and life. What lies have created what seem like permanent paths in my thinking? What unhealthy habits seem indelibly etched on my life? Instead, what are the Truths of God, and replacement-behaviors He has created to block – even repair- those patterns? What a great way to spend a day “managing” God’s creation- both that around me, and that within me.

Fun in the Desert Sun

The Lighter Side of Global Conferences

Sardonic observations during a gathering of folks working in complex contexts.

The rising sun blazed hot on the desert sand in the distance; sending ripples of heat toward the white-washed walls of the ancient city. I carefully timed my breakfast to get me ready and downstairs in time for the last shuttle from the hotel to the meeting venue. Not alone in this, three or four others were making their way to the back lot where we are picked up. The bus was gone. We all stood around looking at our watches to confirm that indeed we were right on time. Three others arrived. I noticed that the time clock at the employees’ entrance was five minutes faster than everyone’s watches.

We piled into a couple of cabs. Wedged in next to me was the ample frame of Mr. I. M. Friendly from South Carolina who wanted to discuss where everybody was from, what organization, and what our ambitions were for coming to this conference. Apparently interested in everyone’s background and motivation except the local driver! I carefully evaded each of his queries, trying to drop some hints. Then finally turned and gave him that “Hello! What are you thinking?!” look. He got real quiet, then apologized after we arrived; admitting he’d forgotten where we were. Apparently the blazing sun, dusty streets, turbaned men and fully shrouded women all around our cab escaped his notice.

"Bless their hearts..."

The song leaders this morning are a sixty something couple who apparently consider themselves quite modern because they’ve learned how to sing (and write!) praise choruses. They shared their songs that might not have made the cut when “Kumbaya” and “Pass It On” were getting put into song books. It appeared that the wife (a warbling soprano) was the writer, because her husband (ploddingly strumming his guitar up front) seemed to be having a hard time figuring out how the lyrics fit into each line of music. Perhaps she should be writing rap…

Now we’ve got Al Borland up there; telling us about the state flower of Arizona. (It grows slowly. Some sort of illustration for work in the region.) Personifying the flower, his slow, methodical speech sets the drowsy tone for me for the day. Perhaps noticing some nods in the crowded room, he just told a joke about the Philippines, which appears to have offended the Filipino guy next to me. Oops. (There's the prickly part of his flower!) I think he was charged with delivering "inspiration," but having heard the theme of the main sessions, he’s instead doing a plenary speech on Mentoring and Mobilization. Feels like he’s spending an hour every morning restating the obvious.

Okay! Finally got a guy at the mic with something to say. “Don’t send money. Send us your business.” (ideas, contracts, expertise) People who start businesses, create jobs, are welcome throughout the world." Problem is, for most of these particpants, many of the terms he’s using regarding business (worker, companies, etc.) feel foreign. He’s leading a workshop later. I hope they give him a large meeting room.

Nov2002

Addendum: This sort of conference inspires, connects, and informs. And I do find them meaningful and constructive- in spite of my snarky attitude that day; instigated by the time-orientation "cultural incident" that morning.

In the ensuing years we continue to find, equip and place doctors, teachers, and coaches around the region. But also a number of business people; investing their skills, experience and very lives into individuals, micro-enterprises, and SME's. And, as that prophetic workshop leader promised, the host communities welcome, treasure, even protect our people among them.

Getting Started - "Beauty from Ashes"

Many have said, "You should write a book!" or "You should start a blog!" To which I usually quote Ecclesiastes 12:12 "The writing of many books is endless, and excessive devotion to books is wearying to the body." But, by popular demand, I'm hoping to herein post my various musings and observations on life, nature, and walking with God. I trust you'll enjoy it. But more: be encouraged, edified, and challenged.

I'd rather have ducks landing than those blasted pigeons swarming up there ^ ,
but can't figure out how to do it.
Get an owl! 

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Here's a short thought...


(This picture) from my local friend and photographer John Skiba illuminates (sorry for the pun) the truth that beauty can often come from ashes. Smoke from the current fires blazing in western states is a sign of the misery endured by my family and friends out there. Yet the smoke we share- when light shines through it - creates and reveals a beautiful sunset.

As you may know, I've had a fair bit of misery in my five and a half decades in this Earth Suit; and there always seems to be opportunity for more. But my goal and hope has always been that God's light would shine through my suffering. To me, of course. But to others as well. Revealing His goodness, kindness, and greatness. One can't always make lemonade. Sometimes the lemons are just rotten. But when one knows The Maker of the lemons, it can put it all into the proper perspective. The Right Light- if you please.

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Though I intend to keep this on the up-beat and encouraging side, if my gripes, temporary miseries, or "smoke" are shared herein, may His light always shine through anyway!