Dusk on the Hill

Up The Hill
A couple of weeks ago, Younger Daughter and I took a short car trip up a hill.  No big deal, but farther and deeper than I thought.

It was a late spring night, and for about an hour, up there on the hill, we just took it all in.  It was nice to have at least a few moments to disconnect from the routine and busyness of these days to enjoy something simple, like enjoying the simple pleasure of a sunset over  the city.  I can't remember the last time I took time out like that.

Daughter wanted to head up the hill and take in the sunset, and get some photos of it, from a lookout at her school.  I am not sure what motivated her to ask me, in the kitchen after dinner, if I wanted to go.  She had just finished her sophomore year, perhaps this mid-point of high school; a marker in the ground of sorts.  Parents:  when you get asked to do something like this from your fiercely independent kids, drop everything and just go.

Top of the Hill
At the top of the hill above the Rose Bowl, you are surrounded on three sides by the City of Pasadena and its suburbs.  As dusk settles in you can hear the low rush of the freeway below.  This world we live is in constant motion, rushing from here to there, never ceasing.  Standing above it all, I suddenly feel out of place - thinking that we had stepped out of that racing world below to a separate place, one of relative calm and reflection.  Above it all, if only for a while.

Am I like all those people down there on the freeway, rushing headlong forward, not perceiving what is really happening to me, letting life flow past me, and not learning?  There is so much going on around us in each moment, and we rarely take the time to stop and listen.  And wonder.

There I was on that hill above the city, in a place I could not imagine being even several short years ago, with a young lady taking pictures by my side who, its seems just yesterday, was just half as tall and confident as she is now.  Am I taking this all in? Do I know what is really happening in the mystery at the core of this life?

Over The Hill
Recently, I heard something on a podcast that has had me pondering, remembering my Dad, and reflecting on that night up on the hill.

It was a thoughtful conversation about the spirituality of Alzheimer's and aging, presented on Speaking of Faith.  Psychologist Alan Dienstag described his relationship with Anna, an Alzheimer's patient, who was at the point of forgetting almost everyone and everything in life.  They both shared a love of the beach, and Alan told his patient/friend Anna that he was going to be heading to the beach soon for vacation.  The beach, Anna thought, her face turning pensive.

Anna smiled, her face lit up, and after some thought she replied...."There is some kind of music that lives there."

In the fog of her mental decline, there was a mysterious place where Anna remembered the essence of being at the beach, and perhaps of this life itself.  The music that lives there.  Where did that memory come from, in a mind that everyone had just about dismissed as non-functional.  Perhaps it was a prayer. Its a place between knowing and not knowing. Its a mystery.

And there we were, up on that hill, taking in the sunset.  Dad, at nearly 52, and daughter at just more than 16, standing in the gathering dusk.

There was music living there too.

Deus Semper Minor; The Small Way

Recently, and for the first time, I heard a friend speak the Latin words Deus semper minor. The literal translation of this is "God always smaller". I have been thinking about this. A lot.

Big American God
This little phrase seems to me to be disconnected with what we Americans like to hear. I mean, after all, we are Americans, dammit. We won the West, built the Transcontinental Railroad, conquered polio, won World War II, and put a man on the moon. Our God is not smaller, He is Bigger, and don't you forget it!

And today, we have lots of attractive televangelists telling us things like "It's Your Time" and "Become a Better You" and "Your Best Life Now". That God is not small. He is powerful. And Big. And friendly, and has good hair, no doubt. He even wants us to get rich, and He thinks poverty is for loosers.

A small God? We think not! We like him Big, and Tough, and Vindictive for our side.

Little Real God
But just look around at real life. Seems that quite often, God is actually, well, small.

Small in His seeming inability to stop poverty, unless we help Him. Small in His ability to heal all the sick, unless we fight like hell for years to find the cure. What about My Best Life Now, where is Big American God? What about that baby born with the genetic defect that will take his life before he is even three months old? Is this a little God? What about broken relationships, where is Big God in this?

But maybe the problem with God's apparent size is not really about size at all. We have distorted our expectations of both God's size, but also of what He is choosing to do in our world, and what He might want to do within, well, ......us.

Perhaps God's way is small. Small in the love we offer a friend, who is lonely, or sick, or hurting. Small, in sitting still and quietly listening to a friend share their hurt and frustration at how life does not seem fair. Small, in the form of money spent to feed others, rather than make ourselves feel comforted. Small, as we love those around us who seem to be poor in spirit. Small in the form of a hand held at a bedside in the final moments of life.

Maybe, after all, Deus Semper Minor. What do you think?

Just Another Rainstorm?

Do you ever wonder why you were put on this earth?


Do you ever find yourself pondering deeply profound questions of life while driving in the car to someplace mundane; and then mentally drop the subject, because you have to get to the meeting, or grocery store, or whatever by six, and you don't have time to ponder such heavy stuff? Besides, the traffic is just ridiculous.

I was given this book by my wife for our anniversary. As it turns out, I think I might be a lot like Donald Miller.

Miller writes:

Back when I got out of high school....I used to suddenly realize I was alive and human. Back then I wondered why nobody else realized what a crazy experience we were all having. Back then I'd be lying in bed or walking down a hallway at college, and the realization I was alive would startle me, as thought it had come up from behind and slammed two books together. We get robbed of the glory of life we aren't capable of remembering how we got here. When you are born, you wake slowly to everything. Your brain doesn't stop growing until you turn twenty-six, so from birth to twenty-six, God is slowly turning the lights on, and you're groggy and pointing at things saying circle and blue and car and then sex and job and health care. The experience is so slow you could easily come to believe life isn't that big of a deal, that life isn't staggering. What I'm saying is I think life is staggering and we are just used to it. We all are like spoiled children no longer impressed with the gifts we're given - it's just another sunset, just another rainstorm moving in over the mountain, just another child being born, just another funeral.

It's not just another sunset, not just another funeral. It's life, and I do think its staggering, and stupefying, and amazing and gorgeous and ugly all together. Sometimes I think if we understood the weight of the beauty, or comedy, or tragedy of it all, right in the moment, we might spend much of our days either in tears from the immense depth of it all, or bent over in hilarious laughter that we get to be part of this Creation that God is not done with yet.

Just something to think about, as you get stuck in traffic again tomorrow.

What My Wife Does for Summer Vacation

This next week, our house will be just a bit more quiet, because my wife will be gone. We will be a bit (ok, a LOT) more disorganized around here. Meals might not have as much love in them as usual, and may have some rather odd, "guy-inspired ingredients". But it's for a very good reason.

I am married to a woman who chooses to take part of her summer vacation, drive to Arizona with a van full of teenage mothers, and spend time with them at this place:



It feels just wonderful to me.

Kelly's Graduation, Skipping Onward

Last weekend was graduation time for the Older Daughter.

These June endings, they always surprise me, and leave me with a rainbow of emotions. Melancholy, hope, sadness, joy, wonder, bewilderment. What is happening to the days of childhood in our home? But in the midst of these transitions that hasten life forward, slipping from our hands, there are glimpses of joy, and mercy, and grace.

This past weekend was deeply meaningful for me, as it marked the graduation of my oldest daughter from high school. That's her (click to enlarge), pointing at us silly yelling family people (in the stands at the football stadium) in the photo above.

We can choose to just just let these milestones pass us by as they happen, without reflection. Or, we can pause, step back for a few moments, take some time, and reflect. What is the deeper meaning of this time of moving forward, looking back, and changing places? And where in all this may Grace, and Joy, and Hope be found?

Thirteen years of school. After pre-school at Calvary Church here in town, we were off to Marengo Elementary School in September 1996; holding a little hand on the first day of Kindergarten. Filing into the classroom in October, on Back to School Night in 2nd grade. Book fairs, school plays, parent days. And then, seemingly without warning, the first day of Middle School; the Semi-Big Leagues of public education. And then, a blur of Middle School plays, sports events, open houses, and homework. Oh, the homework!

And then, again, suddenly, the first day of high school, sports, boys, basketball games, girls water polo at the pool in January (brrr!).

It was a warm afternoon at the high school football field, the setting for graduation each year. For a very long time our town has gathered here each June to mark endings and beginnings. Speeches were made, music was played, names were announced. In less than 75 minutes we were done; over 300 seniors had left the past behind, and were facing a summer of wondering and hoping, before moving on to college, and life beyond, in the Fall.

As all the students left the field, I followed our Kelly with my telephoto lens, taking pictures of these fleeting moments.

And at the end of it all, our otherwise self confident, seemingly omniscient, and often even mature daughter did something I did not expect at all. Something altogether childlike and joyous; filled with glee, and youth, and promise for tomorrow.

After hugging everyone in sight, for just a bit, she skipped across the field toward the exit. Ten yards on the football field. First down. In just those couple of moments, that skipping, for me, illustrated so much of what makes up this remarkable young lady. My eyes filled with tears, a smile broke out on my face, and my heart brimmed with hope. Hope for a whole new generation.

Skipping forward, not looking back. That is how our Kelly will face the future. She is going to DePaul this fall to major in Elementary Education.

How fitting. The future teacher that skips into the future. I am so filled with admiration, and joy, and thankfulness, I could just skip.

And know what? The other day, when no one was looking, I skipped too. For Joy, and Mercy, and Grace.

Old Outside, New Inside - Words to Live By

Cardinal John Henry Newman, said this:

"Therefore I will trust Him. Whatever, where ever I am. I can never be thrown away. If I am in sickness, my sickness may serve Him. In perplexity, my perplexity may serve Him. If in sorrow, my sorrow may serve Him. He does nothing in vain. He knows what He is about."

My experience in thus far in this life; the holding of my own newborn girls in my arms, and sitting at the bedside of my dying parents, as illustrated by this Scripture, leads me to say "Yes!" to the words of Cardinal Newman.

Of Firsts and Lasts, Discovery and Loss

Two events happened recently. One was 350 miles above Earth.

The other was very much on the ground, in the middle of America. One was grand and amazing. The other, almost unbearably sad.

And, for some reason, I keep thinking about the strange juxtaposition of these events, and I cannot loose them from my mind.

Looking Up
The world watched as the Shuttle astronauts spent the better part of a week servicing the Hubble Space Telescope; an event covered by the worldwide press. Repair of Hubble offers opportunities for new discoveries unparalleled, and a sense of almost unbridled expectation, hope, and excitement for the future. Repairs to the Hubble will allow man to see to the edge of Creation, nearly 14 billion years ago.

Sixteen years ago, I was at the Kennedy Space Center with JPL friends to watch the first Hubble Servicing Mission. I will never forget the thrill of watching the Hubble float over us, 70 miles above Florida, in the middle of the night, or the grandeur of witnessing a night launch; the moment, with liftoff that the night became the day.

And now, all these years later, two men, floating in the silent void of space, loosening bolts and replacing parts. Counting the turns of specially designed wrenches; every move coordinated for months in advance. Connecting wires, waiting for "aliveness tests", all while suspended in a vacuum where sound cannot be heard. There is no air up there. This is a "thin place", this space.

Down Here on Earth
The other event was known by only a few, and was strangely and deeply sad, quiet, solemn, and at the moment it occurred, almost silent.

A baby stopped breathing and passed away, a victim of Trisomy 18, after only a few weeks of life. A close friend of ours was the Pastor at his memorial service. His family loved him well, in those brief days of his life. He was surrounded by constant care, and his brief life here, among us, was not lived in a vacuum. His brief encounter on Earth was filled with meaning, although that meaning may still may be shrouded, and, for the present, hard to fathom.

Astronauts floating hundreds of miles overhead in a void of silence, gloved hands reaching out in the dark of space. And below, a small breath, growing weaker, fading.

The void of Space, and the void of Sadness. I cannot begin to understand this.

Maybe this is how it works, this life. Mystery, profound sorrow, hope, discovery.

Racing Forward, Struggling Home, Disquieting Times

I had just come out of a late afternoon meeting.

Racing Forward
My mind had been engrossed in my work for the past several hours, and the earth had not waited for me, turning on its axis without my permission. Time rushing forward.

I walked into the parking lot next to a rush-hour street, above me hung a sublime golden twilight sky - the few wisps of white clouds looked like the perfect brush strokes of a master, painted with ease and perfection. Creation shouting, if I would but listen. The cars continued to rush by, and I was aware of a sense of timelessness, even in the midst of this busy commuter evening.

I got in my car, backed out of the parking space, and began the trip home. It was not two blocks away, when stopped at a busy intersection, I was presented with a visual, living reminder of the fleeting, struggling nature of this life we all lead.

Struggling Home
To my left, out of the car window, was an elderly man, towing behind him a small shopping cart. He was not on the sidewalk, but moving diagonally through the gas station on the corner. He was not moving easily, not at all. Not really walking, more like shuffling, very very slowly. It was as if he was existing in a time warp that was 1/5th that of everything around him. Going 15, in a world of 75 miles per hour.

The most striking feature, and the image that is burned in my memory now, was his posture. Or perhaps the complete lack of it. In fact, his body was almost completely bent over to the point where he did not look forward as he shuffled; rather, due to age, or time, or pain, or maybe disappointment, he looked down, directly at his feet. He moved so slowly, never looking up, towing his little cart of groceries.

Hurry up, little old man. Get out of that gas station parking lot, before someone honks at you, and scares the daylights out of you.

Time seemed to stand still just then. My mind filled with all sorts of thoughts, sitting at the traffic light, under that early evening sky:

Who was this old man?
Where was he going, and would he get home safely?
How much farther did he have to shuffle to be safe at home?
Did he have family? Did they know if he was ok?
Where had he been in life?
And what physical ailments, or emotional burdens had reduced him to this slow plodding shuffle?

And then, the light changed.

I eased forward, heading home. The old man continued his slow plod, in the opposite direction as me, receding in my side-view mirror.

I hope he did not have far to go. To get home. And as I moved on, the sky above this little scene glowed a brilliant orange and red that brought tears to my eyes.

Fitting It Together
The writer and philosopher Laurens van der Post, in his memoir of his friendship with Carl Jung, said, "We live not only our own lives but, whether we know it or not, also the life of our time." We are actors in a moment of history, taking part in it, moving it this way or that as we move forward or back. The moment we are living now is a strange one, a disquieting one, a time that seems full of endings."

I agree. Over the past several months, we have witnessed the sadness and loss of the death of two very dear friends. Two really wonderful men; one, Jim, passing far too early in life, from cancer. In his early 60's with way too much life left to live. Another friend, Frank, in his 80's, after a battle with Lou Gehrig's Disease that left him comatose for months, but still alive.

How might can I fit together these deaths, that struggling gas station man, and that stunning sunset together?

I am not sure how it all fits, other than to say that there is a form of great and tragic, wonderful and ominous orchestration going on around me, every day, if I would but take the time to see it all.

And, if I am a part of this symphony of life, may I play a joyous, hopeful, and comforting part.

My Inner Peter

It's Lent, and so, a season to reflect on the end of Jesus' life.

They were sitting around a fire. Sort of like a campfire. It was the final night of Jesus' life.

And Peter was there. You know, The Rock of the Church, and the thoroughly ordinary, all in one. He was by that campfire too. Eyes nervously darting around. Not willing to look anyone in the face, at least for very long, for fear the expression on his own face might give away the feelings that were churning around inside him. Much like those feelings that swirl around inside us all at times, when we know we have been self-absorbed, let others down, lied, or acted like a fool with people we love. I do those things lots.

That Peter. Like me. The one that denied Christ three times. The one who was a general disappointment.

The other day, I came across this, from the Gospel of Luke:

⁶⁰Peter replied, "Man, I don't know what you're talking about!" Just as he was speaking, the rooster crowed. ⁶¹The Lord turned and looked straight at Peter. Then Peter remembered the word the Lord had spoken to him: "Before the rooster crows today, you will disown me three times." ⁶²And he went outside and wept bitterly.

I am familiar with this story, and have read it many times, and skipped right over one little piece - right there, in the middle.

"The Lord turned and looked straight at Peter."

I have been stuck there now, thinking about that look, for several days.

What was in that look; how would his gaze have looked to me? Could I have sensed what he was thinking? How would it have made me feel; would I have felt the warmth coming to my face, if I had received that gaze from him?

I asked a very wise theologian about that look, just the other day. His response was, "I would like to think that look was the same look on the face of the Father in the prodigal son story." Perhaps.

Then I wondered if there might have been something else in that look; very different emotions that we have heard about Jesus that put us more on edge. Like the time he got fed up with smart guys. And probably with humanity a little too, perhaps. He got mad on occasion, that Jesus.

And then I asked my wife what she thought of that look. Her response was similar to my own thoughts. "Maybe that look was full of a thousand different emotions". Exactly. Sadness, regret, understanding, empathy, frustration, anger, resignation, pity. How many human emotions are there? So many were likely contained in that look.

So, I am back to thinking about Peter, and what made him sit by that fire, and what made him deny the most important relationship in his young life. And I am back to that look.

I think I have an Inner Peter.

Beauty Beyond My Comprehension

This past weekend, Nancy & I ditched civilization and went here. Yosemite. We were here to celebrate 20 years of marriage, marked officially on October 29th.

We had a wonderful time, walking, talking, resting, eating, hiking the Mist Trail. Yosemite Valley is from 1,500 to 2,000 feet below the cliffs that surround it, and as a result, the primary feeling one comes away with after a very short time is that of smallness. Littleness; insignificance.

The grandness and beauty of that place is staggering, large, and overwhelming, all at once. For me, standing in a meadow or among the trees on the valley floor, and looking up, put my life in sudden perspective. I spend my days often thinking that I am large, and in charge. I think I can handle things. But when I am placed in a location that forces me to look up in order to appreciate the immense beauty around me, a renewed sense of perspective sets in.

It is I who am small, dwarfed by the sheer beauty of Creation around me, and humbled to the point of a loss of speech when considering the mystery of the Creator of it all. When first passing through the Wawona Tunnel, the primary emotion I feel is that of just wanting to sit and weep, in awe of what lays before me. To get out of the car and just look, seems, well, so small an offering.

A recent article I recently read struck a chord in my spirit in relation to the beauty I experienced this past weekend:

What more, you may ask, do we want? … We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words—to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it. —C. S. Lewis, "The Weight of Glory"


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How Do I Say This?

Lately, there are these ideas drifting in and out of my head.

These thoughts have been there now for some time, wandering in and out of my days and nights, and I have been pondering how to get them out in writing. Thoughts about Our Purpose, the meaning of life, if you will. Why I am here on this planet, and what it all means.

These are thoughts about the deep waters that run through our lives, about moments that capture us breathless and speechless, and wondering what just happened in our souls. These are the thoughts that epiphanies are made of, ideas that make lasting memories.

And yet, it seems that we often spend so much of our time in places where the water is very shallow and warm. We like it there, its easier to stand and not really think. The little waves feel good against our ankles. No deep water for us.

This is my first attempt to sort through it.

Perhaps this sort of this thing happens when one hits mid-life. As I am now well into my 50th year, I often find myself at mid-point; reflecting on my own childhood and growing up, and at the same time wondering what the future will hold. Where am I going, and how will it feel? Over the past several years I have stood bedside as both of my parents have passed; fading from life slowly. At the same time, I have been learning to adjust to the changes occurring in the two beautiful daughters. Soon they will be leaving our home, and spreading their wings in a world that, to me, often feels hostile and emotionally barren.

How will they fair, how will I? Where have we come from, and to where are we headed?

At the center of this wondering, in the middle of this in-between, there is Hope. There is Grace, and there is deep Peace. I have found my relationship with Christ to be the only thing that connects the dots, that renders meaning to my wonderings, and that sustains me on the journey.

Next, what role does Beauty play in my faith.

Darkness, and then Dancing, After 24 years

Today something remarkable dawned upon me.

More than 24 years ago this summer, I spent time in Eastern Europe, on a mission to serve the persecuted church, prior to the downfall of the Iron Curtain. During that time, and for many years prior, from 1967 to the end of communist rule, religious practices were banned, and Albania was proudly and officially proclaimed atheist, marking an event that happened for the first time in world history.

Just think of it. For almost 30 years, God was seemingly gone in Albania. No churches, no Christmas celebrations, no Easter.

Nothing. Silence. Darkness. A form of hell on Earth.

Enver Hoxha reigned over perhaps the most repressive communist state in history. In order to enforce his radical program, however, Hoxha resorted to brutal Stalinist tactics. His government imprisoned, executed, or exiled thousands of landowners, rural clan leaders, Muslim and Christian clerics, peasants who resisted collectivization, and disloyal party officials. Private property was confiscated by the state; all churches, mosques, and other religious institutions were closed; and all cultural and intellectual endeavours were put at the service of socialism and the state.

Total control. Complete isolation from the world. And Life, and Freedom.

There is a happy ending to this story. As we now know, in the 1980s and 1990s, freedom broke out across Eastern Europe. God was up to something. And then, in 1998, Albania established a democratic system of government based upon the rule of law and guaranteeing the protection of fundamental human rights.

Several weeks, ago, I mentioned here that our daughter Kelly had an amazing summer mission trip experience in Albania. We now have a video review of the trip.

As I watched this video, something remarkable and other-worldly dawned upon me. I was watching Psalm 30 come to life. Where nearly absolute spiritual death and darkness once reigned for more than 30 years, my own daughter, nearly oblivious to history, was laughing, and playing, and loving, singing in church, and even.......dancing.

And people say there is no God.

Coachell Musings - Tres - Too Much Competition

Last Saturday night, in the desert, under the stars, with 40,000 young people, and a handful of us old dudes. Lots of funny cigarette smoke too. Ok, so its like 10:45 PM, and its way past my middle-aged bedtime. But there is more to come, and I have to rally.

What a day. And then, at the end of this long day, the Perfect Mellow. Jack Johnson.

Jack was a professional surfer until an accident at the Pipeline in which his front teeth were knocked out and he received more than 150 stitches. Ouch, man! Although that is when most people believe he changed from a surfer to an artist, in a recent Rolling Stone cover story (March 6, 2008) he stated that it actually happened a week before in the finals of the trials of the Pipeline Masters on Oahu. At the age of 17 he became the youngest competitor to ever reach the finals. Jack was eventually disqualified after failing to catch three waves. Jack realized that the competitiveness was too much for him, "guys were ready to kill each other to catch the next wave," Johnson remembers. The accident allowed time for Jack to start on his new passions, the guitar and making music. He stated about the accident, "I like to joke that I hit my head so hard that that's why I'm so mellow, but I think it did mellow me out." While he was recovering in bed, he spent his time writing songs and playing guitar.

Guys killing each other to catch the next wave. Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Like life in the real world, the world of commerce that I live in. Ruthless competition. But strangely, I try to march to the beat of a different drummer, a cadence that is harder to hear, but easier on the soul. I think Jack gets that too.

Jack has it right, in his song "Better Together", he figures out one of the best blessings of life, relationships.

And so, this song goes out to all the dear people in our lives. For Pastor Jill. To Pastor Mark and Linda. To Tod and Beth. The Kamms. Jeff and Sparky, Jamie and Polly. To Julie in Cincinnati. To the Reverend KC and family in the desert. To John and Shelley. If you aren't mentioned here, you know its only cause my old head is foggy right now. To all those good, dear, long time friends. We love you more than words, or this song can convey.

It really is always Better When We're Together.

Love is the answer
At least for most of the questions in my heart ,
Like why are we here? And where do we go?
And how come it's so hard?
It's not always easy,
And sometimes life can be deceiving,
I'll tell you one thing, its always
better when we're together

[Chorus:]
MMM, it's always better when we're together
Yeah, we'll look at the stars when we're together
Well, it's always better when we're together