Eternal Shore

Is it easy being the only one?

And doing what you could?

Is it knowing that when life is done,

You did what you should.

And when the Hand of Fate comes down,

And life comes apart like glass.

Will the Rock get your renown?

Or will your shadow pass?

Is it easier to venture impossible,

When you believe the Light at the end?

It is easier to free the implausible,

When you know that you shall win.

And then when all fades,

And you see the crystal sea.

When you look into the eyes of Grace,

A reflection you will no longer be.

That instant will find you done

And ease will matter no more.

So take the gifted strength to run

And find that eternal shore.

Three Kinds

Those who dance to The Tune

As the living dead,

Will eat from the spoon

Of any talking head.

And the one who isolates himself

Seeks his own desire.

And he will rue the day

His works are eaten by fire.

But he who knows the Truth

The Truth has set free.

They know Love like no other

And they live purposefully.

Same Old Change

If Hell hath no fury

And humankind forever stand,

If young men weren't invincible

And old men stopped lending a hand.

If women stopped giving children,

And the moon just drifted away.

Would history be repeating?

Or never be the same?

If water took us once

Then fire's turn will come.

And the seam of a theme is given

As we dance to the same old drum.

Whispers of the Human Mind

…If we end up being pessimistic we will become cynical, which is one step away from paralysis.

Black, craggy stone curled upward on either side. There was a sheen to it and the crags were all razor sharp; like the scales of some dreadful, long-dead beast that might have breathed fire or eaten people whole.
The round opening, that the walls curved up around, looked out on miles and miles of faded green and yellow marsh. Thick, gray spirals of smoke drifted listlessly skyward. The stagnant pools far below were black as pitch, filled with the decaying remnants leaves.

Could you stand a look in the mirror?
Would you see what I see from the look back?
How utter joy is in your smile.
But the center of your eye is empty black.

A young man stood before the window. His poise was rigid, his eyes drank in the scene with cold detachment. He wore black. The wind was toying with his hair.
"Hello there!" came a voice behind him. "Enjoying the view?"
"A number of cliched replies come to mind…"
"Try one. See if it gets us anywhere."
"Hmph. What are you doing here, John?"
The other young man leaned against the frame of the opening, careful not to cut himself on the crags. He wore a vest that glittered with golden highlights. "That could work, but my name's not John."
The other sighed and looked at him. "You're the one that started this charade."
"I was expecting you to say something more along the lines of, 'Maybe, but not with you interrupting.'"
"That would have been openly nasty."
"Yes, and openly nasty you cannot be."
This brought a cold smile to the other's lips. "'By the pricking of my thumb, something ironic this ways comes.' Why do you have an umbrella?"
"Just in case. And I know someone once said, 'never trust a man with an umbrella,' but I say, 'fiddle-sticks.'"
"Someone else once said, 'Poets have been strangely silent on the subject of cheese,' but the quote is no more revealing than it is true."
"…You're muddying the waters."
"That's what I'm studying; trying to write a scene."
The boy in gold touched his nose with the tip of his umbrella. "You missed your chance to say something witty about mud, water, rain, and my umbrella."
"Look, I didn't ask you to bother me, okay?"
"So, you're asking me to leave?"
The man in black rubbed his temple. "State the implied and the unrealistic, why don't you?"
"All I'm trying to do is draw you out. Or is that impossible without an 'I-told-you-so,' moment?"
"If I hold forth on something will you leave me be?"
"Do, and we'll see! Respectively, of course."
"Alright. If one finds oneself studying Emerson, they will inevitably end up with either sore eyes or a sore brain. It depends on whether they're studying the individual or his work."
"How disparing and sweeping. What if someone likes Emerson?"
"And some people like taking drugs to make their world more colorful."
"Then what you're attacking is the quality of his work?"
"His drivel you mean. And you asked for it."
"I did, but you didn't deliver. You're quip is too general to attack and too vague to be of any use. It's feel-good, cynical gibberish. It's cute."
"Won't you walk a little faster,
Said Yeats to a gnome.
There's a mathematician close behind us,
And I think he's running home."
The boy in gold popped his umbrella open just in time for a stream of muddy water to come pouring down on it. "And some people called me sheltered. …Stating the obvious and realistic."
The other didn't reply. He was back to gazing out the window. Shaking out his umbrella the boy started away. "Thanks, you've proven my point."
The man in black looked around at him. "At the risk of being called mad? You're bold, fool!"
"No, I'm alive."
And with that, he waltzed off, in a direction the empty, black pupils of the other couldn't fathom.

Passing Messages Through a Glass

In my spare time I envision long tubes of hollow glass hallways, spider-webbing their way along underneath the whispering waves of the ocean. It's a quiet, secret place, full of only the half-remembered echoes of the sounds of the surface. But spare time is as fleeting as spare rooms with wardrobes, or the thoughts of the intensely overactive, multi-tasking, male collegiate population who drink far to much coffee in the morning and sleep far too few hours at night.

I wasn't planning this blog entry, but if I was (say, a week ago) my subject matter would be completely different. Simply put, I would be rejoicing in upcoming new life instead of contemplating its heaviness. But I and my wife have been given heaviness, and I only thank my Lord Jesus that He makes me strong enough to endure. God is good, the only good, and God is wonderful, most likely the only one who is that too, and in Him I rest and weep out the troubles of my soul.

I say that to say we're okay. Don't worry about us. Pray for us, yes! That is dearly appreciated. But don't worry. God has us in His hands.

With that said, it is an interesting mental exercise (at very least) to attempt to identify the specific messages to the soul that are shot in there through your life experiences, your interpersonal interactions, and the strengthening and weakening of your various relationships. What do you really hear when someone critiques you? What is the first reason that pops into your head for any given life experience? Or are you one of those people (I can't even fathom this, really) that believes that there are no whys; that there are just occurrences that either provide advantage or disadvantage? If you are, bless you. Here's a mixed quote for you from two very godless men: "If life is a stage, and we performers, and everything is by choice, nothing by chance…" then each of us have a very specific role to play in the greater scheme of things, and Heaven help the man that doesn't recognize this and pursue finding out what his role is!

Back to those spider-webbing, glass tube hallways. If I'm being honest, the imagery came from an old, awesome game by the name of Riven. I can know this because I've spent a lot of time being way too introspective, wandering around the wardrobe filled spare rooms of my mind if you will. Lots of people wouldn't be able to tell you this connection between inspiration and creative vision, though. Lots of people don't care to know the seeds that have been planted in their own minds or the messages whispered there again and again in one form or another. Lots of people don't want to know because to know would be too painful to bear.

Admitting there is a problem is 90% of the work of solving it.

For me, it's more than a mental exercise. It can be life or death if I let that message land. If I let that idea score home and pierce me through… "In all circumstances take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming darts of the evil one;" - Ephesians 6:16

It is sudden… As I walk the passage of deep blue shadows and only flickering light from my lamp the being is there. It is as black as the rocks that lay outside beneath us, at the very bottom of the ocean. The eyes are hollow, colorless and dead. It pulls back the bow and looses an arrow.
There is only a second. But somehow, I watch for an eternity as the ghastly reflections of the flames off the dart twitch and spit along the rounded glass walls. There is immense relief knowing the missile will never reach me, and intense fear, wondering if it ever will.
The second has passed. I close my eyes and breathe. I feel the impact. It doesn't make it through. The shield is almost bristling, in my inexperienced assessment, but it still held firm. "Little children, you are from God and have overcome them, for He who is in you is greater than he who is in the world."
The beast staggers against the wall of the hallway. Black fumes are coming off its left shoulder. I know I got him. "Resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same kinds of suffering are being experienced by your brotherhood throughout the world." It is convulsing against the glass. The hissing, horrible whispers fill the hallway. The fumes are putrid, staining the curved ceiling.
"And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to His eternal glory in Christ, will Himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you." It dies. There is nothing left except a long, black smear and a foul odor. I move on, breathing deeply once I get past it. Past it. Past…

"Life is made up of passings," is the simple message I hear at the end of this glass hallway. "Do not waste that time that is given with each and every person."

But then the glass shattered. The walls and ceiling and floor, all erupting in and outward in my minds eye. The ocean roared gleefully in, cheerfully washing up and washing away. The sounds of the surface broke through, the gulls were calling over the shore…

Can it ever be adequately described? Waking on the sands, with only half remembered shards of the dream lying around me. The sunlight was in my eyes, a new dawn coming up over that fabulous blue and white ocean spray. The message was still with me, but it was as if the vision had never been. It was only a faded feeling that was going fast; going with the last shades of night.

Will Heaven be that way? I believe so… All of life's sorrows will fade as quickly, and we'll be left basking in the light of the Son.

What this Blog Entry is About

Imagine for a moment that you're sitting on a wrought iron bench at the back of a rice terrace in the middle of the Philippines. There's water everywhere, sitting, flowing, dripping. The sunlight is fighting its way through the mist, though, and the rain has temporarily stopped. You're sitting there, staring out into the fog that's filling the valley before you, waiting for a train.

That's not what this blog entry is about. In a veiled way there's meaning there, but you can't get at it unless you have the key. The key inside my mind. So, instead, you'll make up your own meaning, or listen to someone else's interpretation, or not even look for the meaning at all, simply letting yourself imagine the scene I've laid out before you.

That's not what this blog entry is about, either. I wanted it to be, but once I boarded the train I realized that it would not be that easy since the ticket taker was really a cyborg that's been after my sea-shell table centerpiece for days. He has no qualms with killing me, if he can get what he wants, so I've taken the liberty of locking myself into a passenger compartment full of old women.

This would not have been a problem at all (they didn't notice me lock the door, and really they're all very nice), except that they happened to be intrepid members of the Canadian Women's Murder Society from a chapter located in British Columbia. They were twittering away excitedly over an twenty-one year old case of massacre and I was left defenseless against my imaginations.

Suddenly one of them stood and said, pointing a gnarly finger at me, "He's not supposed to be here. He'll ruin our whole plan if he stays! Sabotage isn't something we just fit in around tea and tête-à-têtes, you know."

The sweetest looking one of them all, a plump mother-hen type that was knitting, smiled up at the speaker and replied, "But, Jean, what would you have us do? Throw him out the window?"

"Well…" commented a third, "Does it open far enough?"

I was out the door in a moment and dashing down the hall. Halls in trains are hard to dash down, though, especially when they're traversing Philippine rice country. I ran into the right wall, then stumbled my way across into the left. That time a door slid open and I fell right through. I found myself face-to-foot with a large gnat, sitting delicately on the seat, reading a joke book quietly to herself.

It was then that I began to wonder what on earth this blog really was about. If I meant to make a point about meaning in writings and writing meanings, I may have missed the mark. On the other hand, if the point was about translating meaning out of writings then I may still have a chance.

At that moment the gnat spoke. Whispered, really, "What did the rabbi say to the horse when they walked out of the bar?"

"I'm sorry?"

"No. He said, 'And that's why you're never getting to pick where we go to when we come to town again.'"

I stared at her. And had an epiphany. Suddenly I was being dragged out into the hall again by an iron grip. It was the cyborg. "Ah, ha! That's where you've been hiding! Where's the centerpiece?"

That's when the train rocked violently, then exploded into the air. The cars came apart. People were whooping and screaming. Old ladies drifted by, some still knitting, others still holding a detonator. The gnat flew up and knocked on the cyborg's head, whispering, "Knock knock."

I didn't hear the rest because I was busily catching the sea-shells streaming out of my pocket, and blinking away all the rice falling into my eyes. A horse and a rabbi floated by, and the horse was saying, "And that's why you're never getting to pick where the CWMS vacations again!"

My epiphany was simply this:

If there's meaning in any writing,
If there's gold in every tale,
Then its worth is in ease of finding.
And if it's too hard you fail.

So I handed the ticket taker my emptying centerpiece, Tipped my hat to the rabbi and pushed off into the breeze.
The sun was shining at that point, clear and blazing bright, And I floated off in that direction knowing full well I was right.

The Heartless Pen Cuts Like Ice

Some people believe that laughter is the best medicine. If this is so, then I'm the healthiest man alive right now, laughing at them. That was a lie, I'm not laughing. But I simply don't buy that bologna for a minute.

You see, I've always been of the mind myself that ambiguity is the best medicine. Vaguely speaking, it helps people because it gets them to think they're being helped. Whether whatever it is is actually helping people doesn't really matter. It's like the chairman of the FED reporting on what they're up to. Everyone ends up smiling and nodding and generally feeling better without actually knowing anything more than before he'd spoken.

Now, not all ambiguity is a good thing, of course. If you said, 'Eat that bagel or else!' Then the person or thing you were speaking roughly to has only to imagine what the 'or else' might be. And, unless they're a terrifically optimistic person, they are automatically going to assume you mean to do them harm in some way.

So, really, I believe upbeat ambiguity to be the best medicine. Hand a person a pill and say, 'This will help you heart regulate itself to Mozart's Die Entführung aus dem Serail, even when you're not listening to it,' and no one will believe you. Of course, if you hand a person a pill and say, 'This is good for indigestion,' then voila! They'll probably be feeling better in the morning.

'What does ambiguity have to do with anything, Gabe?' who might ask. Everything! Detach yourself and float, for a figurative moment, through ambiguous, fleeting emotions that fake you into thinking you're okay! It's fun! Whee!

Cut the cord to your heart, stop listening to that nagging conscience! Do what you like, it's okay! Don't look any deeper, ignore the discrepancies, bend every message to what you believe! Better yet, believe nothing. It's better that way.

There. Wasn't that the best? I know pretending life is a meaningless, soppy mire of ambiguous nothing makes me feel better! I'm sure it'll do it for you too. Never mind the fact that it never lasts. Just take another dose, you'll be okay. >=)

*breaks suddenly* Sorry, sorry. For the past three paragraphs you've been free falling into the Sar-casm. If you'd gone any farther, you might have died. Or been eaten by a grue, but same diff really. I've just saved your life. Aren't you thrilled? No? Well, laugh. It's the best medicine. You'll feel right as rain in no time.

Digressing a bit, but have you ever wondered about the term, 'bushwacked?' No? Neither have I until just now when I got a sudden mental image of someone getting smacked full in the face with a cactus. That would wake them up. Sorry to have bushwacked you, folks, but I don't actually believe that either laughter or ambiguity are the best medicines. I'd rather not live in a Disney movie where everyone is laughing off their troubles, or in a Tennessee William's play where you approach everything at a ninety degree angle just to make sure you miss it.

Truth to tell, I believe reality is the best medicine. And, no, I'm not talking about something you watch on Tv. Don't make me puke. I'm talking about the driving rain that one needs run through to get to work, or that sinking feeling one has to swallow when one gets that test score back, or the terrifying, unimaginable physical pain of giving birth. That sorrow you feel, the guilt that eats away at you, when you do something wrong? THAT'S GOOD FOR YOU! It's not that it makes you stronger even. It's that it drives you closer to God.

“Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time He may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on Him, because He cares for you.” - 1 Peter 5:6-7

Jesus can take all you cares, your sorrows, and your pains. Jesus is the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. Jesus is the best medicine. And that's a fact kids. Take it to the bank.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KnthhE071-I