I AM WRITING A STONE WALL AND BUILDING A BOOK.

At Houghton college I eavesdropped through a partition once on a workshop for English students whom I presume aspired to be writers. The man leading the session was a published author, but I don't remember anything else about him except that he wore a brown corduroy suit jacket and jeans. I had no interest in the topic at the time. I was just present in the same vicinity doing homework and I couldn't help overhearing snippets of what they were saying. As I recall there was a fair amount of navel gazing on the far side of the petition. It is always so with creative types. I recall that one of the students, a girl I think, asked the question, "How do you know if you have what it takes to be a writer?," and without hesitation the author fired back, "Writers write. Writers must write." At the time I remember thinking that was a perfect answer.

I think what the girl was asking was how do you know if you have the chops to write professionally, to be published, but the man's answer brushed that aside as a secondary consideration. Whether it is well-received or not, he was saying,  "Writers write. Writers must write."

I have never built a stone wall, but someday I would like to. Several years ago I even read a book on the topic. It had the unimaginitive title of "Building Stone Walls," but it offered numerous insights into the art and method behind the construction  of stone walls, which I would not have thought of otherwise. I love the looks of an old stone wall. They are beautiful to me in a way that no other border can rival. They have a settled, heavy feel about them, which I enjoy, and I think they scratch an itch inside all of Adam's sons and daughters to exercise dominion over the earth. It's satisfying to see a straight and orderly line made from so many rough, irregular pieces. 

I remember that the book recommended collecting a large pile of rocks before getting started. The reason being that often times you will need to find a rock that has just the right shape, weight and size to fit a niche as you build, and it helps to have a large collection to select from.

I sometimes think of my posts like that- a collection of rough, irregular thoughts varying in shape, weight and size- and the BFZ is my rock pile, but what will I eventually build with them?

I'm not sure, exactly, but I think the time has come to start incorporating them into something straight and orderly. Do I have the chops to be published? I don't know, but writers write. Writers must write.

IF I WERE ROGER GOODELL

This Sunday is the Super Bowl, and As the big day approaches I have encountered a number of articles criticizing football as bloodsport. On the one hand the concerns about the cumulative effect of concussions and other injuries on player health are decidedly legitimate, but if they change the rules any more the game will cease to resemble the football which our forefathers enjoyed. It is just one more nail in the coffin of masculinity and our great republic.

I have a solution, however, to propose to NFL league commissioner, Roger Goodell. Let's get rid of the pads and the helmets. It may  sound counter-intuitive but if you take away the helmet nobody is gonna be leading with the head. As things stand now, the very equipment intended to make the game safer has made it more dangerous. The players are throwing their bodies around like missiles, and it is the pads and helmet which have dulled their natural instincts toward self-preservation. The helmet especially has evolved into a formidable weapon and is possibly the biggest problem.

If I were Goodell I would make the bold move of getting rid of the pads.

A THOUGHT TOO TERRIBLE

Yesterday, I took the kids fishing at Watertown Lake. Like all the lakes here in north Florida its waters are dark as molasses. They say it’s from all of the tannic acid in the oaks. I think it’s beautiful- like a tea that has been steeping for a thousand years. The lake has a long, L-shaped fishing pier that goes out beyond its weedy fringes into deeper water, and after the kids spilled out of the van, Bowden led the charge, clomping out over its rough wooden boards. He ran the length of the pier, with his younger siblings trailing out behind him like a sled dog team.

I watched as he baited his hook and expertly cast a line into the water. His younger siblings also watched, and then they came running back to me clamoring for their own rods, which I had been carrying for them. I had set up shop near the middle of the pier. Lucy moved a few yards off to my left and gave her new fishing rod, a Christmas gift, its inaugural cast.  I was busy untangling Jack and Miles’ fishing rods and baiting their hooks while they peered over the side of the dock looking for “alligator bubbles.” Going fishing with small children requires a lot of patience. Their lines are forever getting tangled, and they can't bait a hook or cast or wait patiently. Basically, they can't fish. Fishing with little kids is really more of an investment in the future. The hope is that they will grow up loving fishing with Dad and that when they are older it will become something for me to do with them. Perhaps one day fishing will provide us with regular opportunities to talk in an unforced and natural way. I am already strategically approaching their teenage years. I had finally gotten their lines untangled and was busily baiting their hooks when I heard our littlest, Miles (4 years old), say something about “bubbles.” I looked up just in time to see him slip head-first off the side of the pier into 10 feet of coffee-black water.

Jack instantly began shrieking at the top of his lungs, “He fell in! He fell in!” while jumping up and down in a tearful frenzy of fear and desperation. Lucy dropped her rod and yelled, “Daddy! Daddy!” A woman, who was also fishing just a few yards to my left and who had also seen Miles fall in, cried out “O, dear Lord, have mercy.” The black water suddenly looked sinister as it swallowed Miles up. As quick as you can say “take your I-phone out of your pocket,” I jumped into the lake after him. As I cleared the side of the dock I caught a glimpse of Miles struggling near the surface. The adrenaline took over completely. I didn’t feel the cold of the water or the weight of my clothes. In that moment I existed for just one purpose. I found him in the water and lifted him up to the waiting arms of the woman who was reaching over the edge of the dock 3 feet above me. With the help of another man who had also been fishing nearby they hefted Miles back up onto the fishing pier. By the time I had regained the pier myself, Sarah had already whisked Miles away to the van where he was being dried off and wrapped in a blanket. A toothless man congratulated me on having the presence of mind to take my I-phone out of my pocket before jumping in. My heart threatened to beat right out of my chest. I went back to fishing.

But later that night, after I had put the kids to bed, I opened the book I was reading and found a bookmark that Miles had made for me earlier that morning. He had drawn a cross on a piece of paper and had proudly presented it to me. “The cross stands for Jesus,” he had explained. “You can use it for a bookmark if you want.” My heart ached as my mind filled with dread at the thought of what could have been. Then it flooded with relief that Miles was tucked safely into his bed down the hall. It felt like when you wake up from a nightmare and for a few moments you are not sure which world is real.

What if he had died? What if I had been on another part of the pier? What if nobody had seen him fall in? What if? That was too terrible a thought to entertain, and too ugly to look at for long. If Miles had died yesterday I’m not sure I would have had it in me to come back to the house. I would have wanted to seal the place off and never go there again. I can’t imagine the pain of seeing his bath toys gathered quietly near the drain, or his pajamas hanging out of the side of the hamper, or the spot near the front door where he had scribbled on the wall, or that bookmark he had given me. My life came all too close to being divided into before and after we went to that lake. Fragile.

On Sunday, a friend of mine lost his 23 year old son who died unexpectedly following an accident. I called him this morning to see how he was doing, and he said “About like you would imagine.” Even if I could imagine I'm not sure I wanted to. That reality is too horrible to look at for long. I thought of Miles. Today my friend was planning to drive over to his son’s apartment to go through his belongings and start cleaning the place out. Before hanging up I promised to pray for him. As I did I couldn’t help crying for my friend and his horrible loss. His task today was going to take a lot of strength. “Lord, surprise him with the goodness of your presence," I prayed, "For Your glory and for Your name’s sake work this for good.”  

The Lord has promised a day when there will be no more crying or pain, no more death. He always keeps his promises. Sometimes we grow too fond of this world. Our eyes grow too accustomed to the dark, but today I lived and walked in the hope of His return. O, Lord, come!

THINGS I THOUGHT TODAY BUT DIDN'T SHARE WITH ANYONE (until now)

Whenever I receive letters from the kids’ school addressed to their “Guardian” I always feel like a superhero or something. "Guardian? Who, Moi? Oh, do go on!"

Guardian. It has a certain ring to it, does it not? The only title I would prefer more is “Lord Protector,” like Oliver Cromwell. Still, “Guardian” isn’t bad. It would be a good name for a superhero whose mild-mannered alter ego is a non-conventional caregiver.

 

Sometimes I think that the Kratts brothers are like the youth pastors in the church of Gaya. “Creature Power!” “Go Wild!”

 Walking through cemeteries always inspires me to start planning my funeral.

 If NJ Governor, Chris Christie, goes on to prove a contender for the Republican nomination in 2016 he would be wise to steer clear of Corpus Christi, TX while planning his campaign stops. From one fat man to another, speaking in a place called Corpus Christi could only invite jokes about the corpus of one Governor Christie. I wonder if that would be a difficult conversation for an aide to have with Governor Christie. “Sir, we need to talk about this plan to stump in Corpus Christi.”

 

What’s up with spatula design? They always have slots, holes, or squares in them, and that despite the fact that they are used most often, in my experience, to scoop and flip batter and eggs which inevitably becomes stuck in the aforementioned slots, holes and squares. Why are they there to begin with?  What is their function?

 

If I could trade voices with anyone I would, without a moment’s hesitation, swap voices with Gene Hackman. I love that man's voice.

I think if Stinker the Tinker is ever to take his place in popular culture he must have a catchy Christmas Carol to propel him into national consciousness. When my ship comes in I will commission such a song from Gordon Lightfoot. I wonder what he's up to.

"LIKE SMOKE," COMING TO A LIBRARY NEAR YOU! (If you happen to live in Lake City, FL, that is.)

 The local library in Lake City does not have a copy of my book, "Like Smoke," so yesterday, on my day off, I set out to remedy that sad fact. You're welcome, Columbia County!

 You'll find it in the American Poetry section just past a number of inferior works by some dude named Shel Silverstein. His mediocre efforts will look all the more lackluster because they have been shelved next to mine- not unlike like the ugly sister at a dance. I am sorry Mr. Silverstein. It is a sad bit of fate that an alphabet-based filing system caused us to be juxtaposed so harshly. Couldn't be helped I suppose.

 I even brought an extra copy to be sold in their little used book store. Fifty cents for all paperbacks? Wow, that's a bargain, especially considering that this little beauty was signed by the author.

 Let's just move that old, crummy copy of "The Hobbit," out of the way so this masterpiece can be properly showcased.

 "There, that's better."

YOU CAN QUOTE ME

"Gifts from God are not for us, but rather through us to others."

The rain today has given way to a misty afternoon. Various kinds of tree frogs are joining their different songs. They remind me of my favorite Robert Frost line,

"That sang in the mist a month ago,
A ghost of sleigh bells in a ghost of snow"

THE PROBLEM...THE SOLUTION

Humanists will tell you that our problems find their origin outside a person and the solution lies within.

The Bible argues that the problem is within, namely sin, and the solution is without, namely God.

MORE PHIL ROBERTSON COMMENTARY

I have been reflecting some more on the controversy currently surrounding Duck Dynasty star, Phil Robertson, and I think I got a few things wrong in my original response to what was going down.

Retractions and corrections never get as much press as the original headline, which is unfortunate for me because I am a verbal processor. A lot of people wisely wait to speak up on an issue until they have arrived at a place of settled conviction. For me, however, I only seem to arrive at a settled viewpoint through the process of talking and debating. I usually come away from a bull session with a more sharply honed and defensible position, but I am sure that if you read back a transcript of the discussion my views would evolve wildly from the first to the last. My first stab at articulating a position is almost always rife with prototype errors that must be subsequently debugged and sometimes even apologized for.  It's a messy process for sure, but it's me. (Hey there!) It is especially problematic for me in the internet age where I am perpetually documenting my bumbling progress toward the truth before an anonymous, judgmental crowd. (Hey there!)

You may read my earlier statement regarding the Phil Robertson dust up by clicking HERE.

Of course, not everything I said was wrong, and before I get to the mea culpa let me highlight a few of the things I will stand pat on.

First, I was definitely right regarding my prediction for the arts.

Second, the Bible and Christianity is, by it's very nature, controversial...even offensive. Christians who are effective and faithful in communicating and living the truths of God's word will always be described by some as extreme, too strong, hateful, and wrong. This is true even within Christian circles. There are a few Bible teachers today who I greatly admire, but I have found that for every positive comment you find about them you seem to bump up against two or three more that are critical of them, and usually written by Christians. They are being used in a powerful way though, touching the lives of thousands, and I have noticed a strong corollary between the efficacy of their leadership and controversy. This was certainly true of Jesus. After all, they wouldn't have crucified him otherwise. I forget who said it, but the quote comes to mind, "The only way to be at peace with your neighbors is to be no better than them." I have been waiting for the inevitable storm of controversy to erupt around the Robertson family for a long time. In fact, I have confided to Sarah more than once that I sometimes pray for them and their families. Their testimony is so public, and they are frail, sin-prone human beings like me. I have been waiting for one or more of them to become embroiled in a scandal or say something regrettable. Public Christians have disappointed so often, and being a large family they present an enormous target for the enemy to bring shame onto the gospel. I pray for them often. They are in a terrifying and sobering position, but that's exactly what makes Phil's use of language so difficult to pardon (I'll get to that in a minute). Didn't he know? Didn't he care?

Third, I don't like that the knee jerk reaction in our culture is to silence people when we disagree with them, or to unfairly label disagreement as hatred. I'm not talking about free speech either, that only applies to the government's attempts to silence people, which is not applicable here. Networks and individuals have every right to associate or disassociate with whomever they please, on whatever grounds they please, but in a society like ours, with such a diversity of perspective a robust and honest discourse about issues such as those which Phil Robertson took up will be a rough and tumble business. It will involve people saying things we don't like to hear, and when that happens the correct response is to engage, discuss, or even argue...heatedly! But Phil Robertson's critics simply said "Shut up!" "Remove him from the discussion!" As an American and an engaged citizen I don't like the feel of that.

Joshua Culpa

The church should never strive to be inoffensive, nor should it apologize for the truth, but neither should it seek to be thoughtlessly offensive, crude or abrasive. Nor should it excuse or defend brothers and sisters who fail as ambassadors by misrepresenting the spirit of their King. Colossians 4:5-6 says, "Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone," and 1 Peter 3:15 exhorts Christians to talk about their hope in Christ to nonbelievers "with gentleness and respect." I don't think that some of Phil Robertson's remarks pass the gentleness-and-respect test. In short, they were crude and regrettable. I can't defend that.

The worst part about all of this is that I don't think Mr. Robertson's comments do justice to the man himself. As best as I can discern from what I have seen of them on TV and online (I don't know them personally, of course), the Robertson family doesn't strike me as charlatans. They seem to be sincere about their faith. Their heart beats for the lost. They are honest about their failings, they have a correct view of grace and the gospel, and they are missional in outlook. I find them personally compelling, exciting, and sympathetic. In truth, I love them, and view them as brothers and sisters.  What's more, I like almost all of the comments Phil Robertson has made since this all hit the fan including some comments he made which were edited out of the GQ article as well as his short but to the point response to his critics, which has been circulating widely on facebook. 

Maybe Phil Robertson is a verbal processor like me, and maybe he will come out of this national bull-session with a more sharply honed position. Whatever comes of this, I hope he and the rest of the Robertsons keep on talking. I like what they have to say, and, normally, I like how they say it.

Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders.

Gentleness and respect.

In the meantime, I will keep praying for them.

I love the Robertsons.  

CALLED IT!

Now we can debate whether or not a show like Duck Dynasty technically qualifies as "art," and it most certainly does not, but even so I think this most recent flap surrounding Phil Robertson's views on homosexuality does tend to support a prediction I made about the arts way back on October 18, 2010.You should check out my prediction by clicking HERE.

I called it, America! Prescience comes standard in this model.


The thing that I find most ironic about A&E's response to Mr. Robertson's unfiltered and honest opinions in a recent GQ interview is that for my whole life I have been hearing about the heroes of pop culture, like Elvis, Madonna and Bill Maher, who dared to push the envelope of what was acceptable, "bravely" confronting the established mores of society through outrageous conduct and in-your-face language. All the while efforts to silence them and marginalize them were universally condemned as vaguely un-American, not to mention futile. Those soldiers of liberalism have been held up to me as wave upon relentless wave of an advance against the bastions of prudishness which enslaved a free-spirited people. How are Phil Robertson's statements any different than say John Lennon declaring "We're bigger than Jesus," or "Imagine no religion. It's easy if you try?" 

Now the shoe is on the other foot. Us church folk are getting a taste of our own medicine, and it must be owned that the church in America has a checkered past of engaging culture in collaborative dialogue, but it must also be owned that liberals' hearts are twisted, and they would make themselves into what twisted them (best line from the movie "Last of the Mohicans"). Their response to Phil Robertson is the very stuff of prudish disapproval. It strikes me as vaguely un-American, not to mention futile. Phil Robertson is an envelope pusher. His conduct is outrageous and his language is designed to stir the pot. By the way, having Phil Robertson sit down for a GQ interview is a bit like releasing a dog into a chicken coop and then feigning shock and dismay when it starts gobbling up chickens. We all saw this coming, didn't we? I am only surprised that it was this long in coming.

Having said that, I appreciate Phil Robertson's honesty and what's more I agree with him in substance. I think his ideas could have been more artfully presented, his words more carefully chosen (what he said was crude), and more balanced with grace, but in the main he was speaking the truth as I and many others understand it.

Timidity does not move a culture. It has never led a people.

Our liberal, culture-shaping, pop icons have taught us the truth that a bold, provocative, envelope-pushing style moves the debate and leads a people. Silence is surrender, and too much of the field has already been ceded through timidity and silence. The lay of the land, culturally speaking, is ripe for a Phil Robertson. It feels a little naughty when the Robertsons mention the name "Jesus" on national TV. That is not so unlike how it must have felt for folks in the sixties to see Elvis shaking his hips and gyrating in black and white. **GASP** I'm telling you, it's an irresistible vacuum to an envelope-pushing culture, Phil Robertson just got sucked in.

19A LOWER WELDON STREET, ST ALBANS

It was early in the morning. The moon still hung pale in the gray sky even as the thin, rose-colored rim of the dawn began to spread in the east. The world was metallic and cold. My feet felt wooden as I walked, and my fingers ached as I fished my keys out of my pocket. Then I opened the door, and descended the stairs into the warm apartment below.

Under the weight of the blankets her feet slid across to find mine. She gave to me of her warmth, and took of me my cold.  The transaction spoke to me of love...true-hearted, pure and simple.

A man came walking across the weedy fringes of the woods at the edge of town. From the barber chair I watched him emerge from the woods and stride across the railroad tracks and then turn down Catherine Street before doubling back and crossing Lake Street. He walked aimlessly but alert like one who is looking for something, but is either not sure exactly what or was not sure where it might be found. He had on his face a certain look which inspired kindly strangers to say things like, "You look lost, can I help?," and which inspired the less kindly to avoid him altogether.

"Do you know that fella?," asked the barber. 

"No," I said, "You?"

"No. He looks lost though."

"Yeah, maybe he's looking for something."

"...or somebody," said the barber.

TATE KIDS (bonus)

 One afternoon we stopped by Lake Palestine and we let the kids jump in and cool off. Only afterward did we learn that even the locals advise against jumping into this body of water because "It's just nasty" and "There's a lot of gators in there." Nobody died so no harm no foul I suppose.

TATE KIDS

In this week's installment I invite you to come dine with the kids at Lake City's Fu King Chinese Restaurant and around our breakfast table. Then join them for the craft portion of a children's event at the church where they made turkey hats.

 "Italian Captains are cowards! He should be shot!" written next to the urinal in the bathroom of the Fu King Chinese Restaurant.

The kids made turkey hats, and then all the adults stayed in one part of the church while the kids went and hid throughout the church. The adults were the farmers and the kids were the turkeys. None of them escaped, but one little boy managed to stay hidden longer than the others because he managed to wiggle into the little cubby under the pulpit.

Miles refused to make or wear a turkey hat, explaining "I'm not a turkey. I'm Miles, and that isn't even fun or cool or fun or anything!" Well-played, Miles, well-played. (That one's trouble)

THINGS I THOUGHT TODAY BUT DIDN'T SHARE WITH ANYONE (until now)

1. I wish pine needles were edible, no, more than that, I wish they were delicious! For all I know they may be edible according to the strictest definition of the word. I imagine that the flavor of a green candied pine needle would be tart like lemon or rhubarb but also fresh like basil.

2. I have always thought I would enjoy writing for the J. Peterman catalog.

3. If I had loads of  cash, and I mean enough to be a little eccentric, I would, among other things, create a line of hard candies to sell in museum gift stores that closely resembled famous statues- only in miniature of course. They would be very tastefully done...very classy.