Just Another Father's Pride

There's no way of saying this without sounding cheesy. Some things by their nature beg being tuned out or forgotten because of their commonness. If I say, I'm often amazed by my sons, that I cannot explain how they became the good men they are, that their choices and decisions reflect a degree of thoughtfulness and faith that is beyond me, well I'm just another father talking. 

But strangely, I who am used to addressing more esoteric subjects, feel the need to float this most basic of human emotions out in the universe somewhere. I was up at 3:30 this morning thinking of how proud I am of my sons. I see what they are giving their lives to -- that young people in Vancouver and Fresno would know the life-changing message of Jesus the Christ. They have both married women who are in every way beyond our highest dreams. They surround themselves with friends of quality who laugh and serve and provide this amazing extended family. And I am left with a sense of gratitude and the humility to know that, in spite of my fallenness, God has gifted them up to be who they are.

So I guess its not just a run-of-the-mill Father's pride that kept me up. Its amazement that I get to witness the fulfillment of all those prayers in the night a couple of decades ago when they were feeding or teething. Its amazement that someone with my particular set of sins and limitations gets to see the improvement of the species through grace alone. And its amazement and gratitude that they still care to hang out with me from time to time.

OK, maybe its just run-of-the-mill Father's pride.

In the Forest of Promise

It's raining now, and the forested  hill out my window is  gracefully shedding the deluge into eager rivulets that lead to the creek at the edge of Ray and Corean Bakke's home in northern Washington.  Winding through this land, Ray has crafted a 500 foot "Mission Trail," a soft, pine-needle carpeted pathway under a canopy of Douglas Fir, Red Cedar, and Hemlock. Markers every 100 feet or so celebrate the influence of missional Christians throughout the ages, folks like John of Damascus, St. Francis of Assisi, Benedict of Nursia,  Martin Luther, etc. Ray has produced a guidebook for the trail, helping the hiker to reflect on the way the world is different because those people followed the climb God had them on.  Occasionally there are signs posted that indicate when certain ones of God's people, Luther or John Knox or others 500 years or more previous, were ministering when the tree you are standing in front of had first started to grow. The trail ends in a circle of benches, a chapel in the woods, complete with a cedar pulpit and stone baptismal font.  Here, it's easy to reflect on the amazing legacy of costly leadership that we operate under today, almost like the great canopy of Hemlock and Cedar that dance above that chapel.

I have walked this trail a few times over the years.  It has never failed to raise my expectations of what a life committed to Christ could be.  I walked it again yesterday, when it wasn't raining. Golden sun filtered through spaces in the canopy and, fell on amber colored humus,  sharp shale and granite rock formations, and lacey spiderwebs sparkling across the path.   Ray has planted more than 3,000 saplings on his property in the last four years, and they have been welcomed into the fellowship of older trees.  As I  reflect on these trees, it occurs to me that someone 500 years from now might choose to extend this mission trail and post another sign, which will say, "when this tree began to grow, Ray Bakke taught a generation to love their cities and seek their transformation." 

I am often lost in thought on this trail, but never in danger of being lost in the forest, though the continuous tunnel of green beckons you around corner after corner. Occasionally there are living splashes of color that act as landmarks: a Huckleberry bush with its edible red berries,  a deep plum Japanese maple, or a holly-leafed, Oregon wild grape. One of these splashes jumped out to a startle me as I rounded a bend,  resulting in the following haiku:

Surprise hydrangea

Prankster flow'r of the forest

Blue marks my way home

Part of me wants to be one of those colorful splashes, a landmark.  But in my saner moments, I know that I really just want to be a sapling planted in the company of elders. As I transition to working closely with Ray's international ministry over these next few years, I know that my branches will take on their own shape. I know that I will reach to drink in the sun at the edge of his remarkable shadow. And I pray that I will grow to be a tree that takes its place in the forest of promise.

The Whites stumble into technology

We don't pretend to be good at this ...

Taking Down the Alphabet

Tina stood on a chair to reach for the alphabet that was strung across and around the top of the tiny tutoring room at the back of our house last night. I couldn't bear to watch the dismantling. But so much of language has been out of reach for the children who filled this place over the last 15 years, it seemed appropriate that taking it down should be hard for us as well. With our transitions to new positions, the Wise Old Owl reading and homework club is shifting to another location and we are clearing out the space. I poked my head in briefly to check her progress. Tina is nothing if not efficient. She had already boxed the books, stacked the attendance posters with names of kids we have grown to love -- Lupita, Bobby, Keeshawn, Victoria, Eternity and hundreds of others. The ancient, donated iMacs were being unplugged. The globe of the world sat leaning in the corner - A Swiftly Tilting Planet.

Not one to instantly recognize my emotions, I turned away -- had to get out of there. If my initial fear was that the faces of the kids who had picked out books in that room over the years would accuse me of abandoning them, I needn't have feared. They are always too gracious and appreciative of any effort on their behalf, and too accepting of what must seem like arbitrary changes to their options for that. What I am feeling is grief.

I ran the program at first, scouring the neighborhood on my moped for any available kid who wanted to come for an hour, read a book, do homework with a college student, play a game, sing a song, pray a prayer and get a snack. I met parents and siblings, got to know some of their stories. Many times I walked walk down a street in the neighborhood and children ran up to me, hugging my legs and yelling "Pastor Raaaaaaaaandy!" It became my primary way of understanding what was happening in Lowell, and a way to ensure that my white, middle class eyes could not avoid the realities of life there, and my whiter, middle class mind did not give in to the tidy explanations of middle class culture as to why the poor are poor.

After a few years we had staff take over the program, and as my work caused me to travel more I would miss weeks. But if I was in town I would make sure to come and play the song at the end, to lead a devotion for the college students who were there as tutors, to share a meal with some of them afterward. Tina would be cooking that meal as the program ended, and the kids would walk through the kitchen, interested in what she was making, and of course drooling over the smell of it. What I loved most was seeing kids matched with tutors, siting on benches together, engaged. Brilliant students from Japan, struggling with their English, helping bright students from the 'hood struggling with their English, and everybody winning in the process. We held cooking demonstrations by professional bakers, folded orogami, had an artist come to display watercolor technique, a physical therapist to talk about kinetic energy. With every special feature, my whole insides smiled.

Our ancient, grafted orange/grapefruit tree forms a canopy over the back yard, and each December as the program entered its last week of the term, the children jumped for the lowest fruit. They held them like prizes, would take a second one home for a Mom or a little brother. We would collect the rest and put it in gift bags to deliver to their families at Christmas. My whole insides smiled.

But lest we succumb to nostalgia, the program was also a major inconvenience, and contained pieces that could act like hidden coral in the shore of our week. The preparation and cleanup, the snack wrappers in the yard, the kids with attitude, the damage to property or the simple wear and tear; any of these things could leave our toes bleeding and sore, and won't be missed.

Yet I still grieve. I feel proud of these 15 years. Glad to have loved these kids with our modest effort. Sorry that we will miss what is next for them, though some of them still come by to check in with us. Perhaps I grieve the loss of that inside smile that hosting this outreach created.

We are making plans for the tutoring room, this old 10x10 sleeping porch wrapped around with seven windows. It has great light, has a bathroom, and is connected to our kitchen and back office. It will make a nice breakfast nook, or guest room, or a place to set up art projects -- stained glass or mosaic, or perhaps Tina's sewing machine. Like any change, it is filled with a combination of loss and possibility, of a death and a rebirth.

The alphabet cards are now in a jumble in a box, along with the books. Out of sequence, I can imagine them reassembling on their own in the half-light of their storage, but in a new order of their own making. My mind's eye says that they now spell out a sentence: "get us to the next room." A part of my heart has been boxed with them, and won't be free until they are.

Of Mirrors and Tears

We turned to go, to leave the cramped quarters of my parents’ downsizing, their unwanted relocation, for our long drive home. I knew I would steer the car without seeing the road as I reflected on their age, their fragility, the increasing ghostlike quality of their presence. The traumas and restrictions of aging are like a tightening noose to them, and their enjoyments are few. But just then the strains of a violin began on the television, and I said, “Is that something from Brigadoon?”

Without hesitation, my Father, who at 90 is finding it harder to express what he means these days, said with certainty, “No, Phantom of the Opera.” Then he pulled us back into the room and urged, “Let’s just listen to the end of this before you go.”

And so we stood there, we four, two couples in a line, watching a man do what so few of us can these days. With the one musical instrument most like the human voice he communicated fully, clearly with my Dad and Mom, through faulty or forgotten hearing aids, right past the latest medical tests, past the corridors of boredom or helplessness they live in. The message found them, like cups of cool water to their perfectly matched pair of parched and grey souls, an oasis found while crawling through the desert that precedes paradise.

As we listened it slowly dawned on me that we were standing in front of the mirror that had made the trip with them in their move. The added angle put me face to face with them, allowed me to witness the power of that melody as it pulled from their frozen faces something I didn’t recognize at first. It was astonishment and awe.

I felt my own breath leave. Was it the glimpse of them at 87 and 90, standing together in their respective infirmaries, together for more than 65 years? Was it the thought that this could be the last time I see this picture? Was it the absolute pathos of the music? Yes, all these things. But slowly, in that regal reflection, I came to know that it was the immensity of the gift that this image was to me that made we weep. That angle allowed me to see them not as my parents but as a man and wife, propping each other up, stiffly, painfully, for nothing but the reward of beauty. It was a too-late realization of how music, and anything true and beautiful, really, was like food to them, and especially if there was someone to turn to afterward and exclaim, “A perfect end to the day.” It was a too-late realization that it had always been that way for them, I had just not understood it in my childhood. It is that way in me as well, but never until this moment in front of the mirror, have I known why I feel it so deeply in my soul. Time is ruthlessly, lovingly, and as a gift to me, insisting that they reach their end with their truest selves on display.

My tears lasted for the first hour of our drive home, silently rolling from under my dark glasses to soak my collar. After a while, I turned to the radio for rest from the poignancy. But it was not to be. It was now my own turn to be astonished – for my own wet face, stiff with the attempt to conceal my tears – to be caught up in amazement by the program I had randomly selected. The strains of Phantom of the Opera had just begun, the melody instantly flooding the car with the images of my parents’ true selves, and peeling back the layers to reveal something of my own, my own equal need for the true and beautiful, and the similar journey I am now on.

The Giver of this gift, the one who spontaneously gathers an audience around a television concert, the one who arranges the right angle in front of the mirror, the one who beckons a driver to turn on the radio at just the right moment, this Giver wants to give only what matters most -- the gift of knowing who we are, the gift of knowing why we are the way we are, the gift of his beauty and truth, the gift of a journey.

The mirror makes their small place seem larger; I am glad we decided to hang it there. But today it expanded my soul as well as the room, and helped me glimpse a reflection of the Giver – the One who planted the soul’s taste for the truth, the One that grants regular feasts of it, the One who causes one traveler to say to another, “a perfect end to the day.”

red-tailed prophet

Rooster announces a not-yet reality
Red-tailed, Paul Revere prophet of an
Apparently urgent
Urban dawn.
Atop a rusting chassis in a
Cycloned yard
This concrete kingdom deserves advance notice
Of the merciless light
As much as any benign barnyard.
Patriot on his perch
He delights in the warning but
Cannot defend the night.
Let it come, Rooster.
Push the snooze and hug your hen
And I will do the same.
Perhaps the day is kind afterall.

***********************

There, Scott. I only blog these days when prodded.
Keep prodding.

Remember

I turn the page of a very good book, anxious to know the end of the thought which had so captivated me, and there, lining the margins, like a graded exam, are comments and underlines in my own hand, from a previous day when the same words had first moved me. I had savored them, chewed them even like a juicy tenderloin. But like almost everything I read they had passed through me -- slowly or quickly, who remembers? -- had not taken up residence in my incontinent mind. Having only been enjoyed but never been planted, these seeds of thought could never bear fruit. Now they slap me in the face. I have even re-read sections of books that I have written, and have forgotten that I had ever said such things.

I could worry that this is a foretaste of what my 87 year-old Mother experiences in the throws of her dementia. Unable to remember a conversation past the three minute mark, she experiences over and over the joy of our visit, every time I re-enter a room. But over and over she experiences the panic of my Father's absence, when he leaves to use the restroom.

The command to remember is pervasive in the scriptures. The Creator, ultimate realist that He is, seems to know that the daily beauty and burden of being alive requires an intentionality and focus that consumes us. The command to remember is a prescription for survival -- the lessons of the past meant to provide a more sure footing for the present, a reminder to give ourselves only to things that matter.

But I need more than a reminder. Like my Mother I find myself rediscovering God's goodness every day. While that is a joy, it is difficult to build on my experience, to add to yesterday's joy, to assemble cumulative total of God's goodness in my life. And like my Mother's panic, I must re-learn the falseness and hollowness of sin every hour.

I round a corner and my Mom lights up: "when did you get here?" I turn a page and there are my marks. The joy of first discovery, the frustration of having hiked in circles, of having tread the same ground.

My journal prods my memory. I can at least re-read the most significant lessons. But what I know I really need is a way of embedding these seeds before they pass through me. Beyond the act of underlining, beyond the act of writing them down. What if my mistake has been to treat knowledge as food -- something to be consumed? What if what I really need is to obey the thing I discover-- to turn the calories of truth into muscle, something that can be used, something that must be used to be kept? Every book I read, every passage of scripture I study, every moonlit meadow I see, every shaft of of afternoon light basking my living room with a rich amber glow. Maybe memory is like muscle -- use it or lose it.

The Arithmetic of Blessing

By Randy White on the Occasion of his Dad’s 90th Birthday

32,850 – The number of times you have opened your eyes
To see the room growing light,
Though not always the same room,
And closed them again at rest,
Though not always at peace.

32,850 – The number of days, I am quite sure, you found
Reason to smile,
Sometimes broadly,
Sometimes bravely,
Effortlessly one day,
As a discipline the next.

32,850 Cycles of hunger and filling,
The interruption of inspiration and the tedium of dullness,
Of love as an experience and love as a verb,
Of muscles taught and the bow unstrung,
Cycles of praying and waiting,
Of worry and unexpected wonder.

The Ancient Word says,
“Teach us to number our days and so gain a heart of wisdom”
We are to look ahead and know they are limited, and so use them well.
We are to look back to learn, and give thanks to an invisible hand.
Ninety revolutions around the sun clinging to this divine blue dot
Have taught you the truth of this, the
Unavoidable arithmetic of blessing.

God has been with you, Dad.
All 47,304,000 minutes of your 90 years,
Upholding, sustaining, training;
And now you stand, like those two wooden
Chinese scholars on your dresser,
Wise in the ancient knowledge of His goodness and grace,
Surrounded with love by those with fewer days and less experience Who still watch and learn.

Beaver Tail, O Beaver Tail

O Beaver Tail,
When in the market I look at you
My limbs go frail
My tongue turns blue
As if some beaver stout and hale
Had come and chewed my knees right through

rww c 2008

Christmas Eve Notables

1. Made sure that I borrowed a car from a friend large enough to handle every neighborhood kid coming with us to Christmas Eve service and then back to our house for soup, presents and fusbol tonight. Leaving one at the curb will simply not do.

2. Called another friend to arrange delivery of his used furniture to a woman in the neighborhood who has nothing for her grandchildren to sleep on. She's available at 3pm today. (What a great gift this will be!)

3. Answered a phone call from out of the blue from a man who was drunk, who somehow got my number. Prayed with him on the phone and got him information on assistance with alcoholism.

4. Watched Tina peel potatoes. It is strangely comforting.

5. Finished varnishing a picture frame I made from an old redwood fencepost pulled from a neighbor's yard to go around a new stained glass piece I made for a loved one.

6. Heard from another friend who wants us to come over later after the neighborhood kids go home.

And it's not even noon! Thank you, God, for your presence in this day. We give you the rest of it, and will watch for you to appear in unexpected ways.

A Beautiful Delusion

I lived atop a pillar these last nine months
It's fluted scrolls rising above, kissing clouds,
The stately straightness of its vision lifting me to fantasy heights.
Expecting the necessary contractions of birth,
Ready,
Eager,
Instead, the quiet reckoning of a stillborn dream listlessly
Dangles over the edge.
The eagle's nest is abandoned,
The perch a delusion,
But the remnant fog in my lungs is a
Painful gift.

White Got Buzzed

Thank you to all who offered kind words about the Fresno Bee spread that profiled our work in the Neighborhood on Sunday. The Bee journalist, Guy Keeler, did a thorough job, and we appreciated the sensitivity and focus of his reporting.

For those who missed it, you can check it out (minus most of the pictures) at http://www.intervarsity.org/aboutus/pressroom/index.php#IV-in-the-news

or

http://www.fresnobee.com/263/story/238217.html

Perfect Fit

Worn smooth by salt and sand
This feather wood, in the shape of an open hand
Cradles what is laid across it –
Another sculpting from the sea,
Drifted stick refugee,
Sloughed without pain from a
Distant tree –
It seeks the lifeline of the first,
Nestles in a gently curving space on the
Knotted, weightless woody palm,
Its own little valley where it rests
In divine balance.
And I, plopped seal-like on my low rock
Letting eternity slip through my
Fruitless fingers
Am the final force in the completion of their
Destined union:
I am the Matchmaker of Moonstone Beach.

RWW 2006

The Privilege of Shaping the Shapers

I had the honor of addressing students at the Gordon College Convocation this week just outside Boston. More than a thousand students showed up as I explored the subject "Every City a City of God." I found Gordon students to be earnest, extremely bright and wanting to see examples of people seeking shalom, and experiencing it. Val Buchanan, Director of Gordon's inner-city outreach program in the nearby city of Lynn, and her fun staff team, had invited me to campus to build vision for community engagement and urban mission worldwide. In addition, I met with many students who had sincere questions about urban ministry. I did a podcast, taught a class, and trained their outreach team.





So what was I doing at a Christian College? It was a little surreal. The idyllic setting, New England colors in late fall, almost the entire student body gathered. Not my normal venue. I felt honored to be asked, for the chance to shape the future shapers of evangelicalism. These students will graduate to ministry and the marketplace; the vision they carry with them will determine the direction, focus and character of key sectors of the church's mission for a generation. I wanted to encourage the Gordon staff who are seeking to help students and staff leverage their privilege for the sake of the last, the least and the lost. It was a privilege, and I am grateful for the warm reception and gracious response.



While in the Boston Area I dropped in on Mako and Ming Nagasawa, former directors of the Boston Urban Project, who live in the Dorchester Community, the second highest crime neighborhood in Boston. We feasted on Jamaican food and toured the neighborhood park that Ming helped to plan and fund. I heard about the church that meets in their home, one that welcomes neighbors, including those struggling all the vices and vulnerabilities surrounding poverty. We talked about future prospects for urban projects. And I introduced them Val Buchanan at Gordon College.


God, thank you for the gifted, faithful people you've allowed me to meet, and the chance to serve, connect and shape as you lead.

Back Bearing Fruit

You’re back! How did it go? These months of sabbatical have been a timely gift. God knew how deeply we needed it. We minister out of who we are. If who we are is defined by mere productivity, pragmatism, and management by objective, we have settled for something less than fruit. And its all about fruit, about the outcomes God gives when we do His work in His way. This is why God commanded that fields lie fallow – unused – for a season, so that they might be replenished, and become fertile soil once again, in order to bear fruit. Truth was, Tina and I felt like an overworked field for a long time – depleted. This chance to rest, pray, read, visit, listen, look, soak, ponder, write, laugh, question, walk, and a host of other things there never seemed to be enough time for, was perfectly timed to get our field ready. And the world didn’t fall apart in our absence, nor our ministry!

What is the fruit? Tina and I established some new rhythms: certain prayer times, certain prayers, and our spiritual conversation has renewed. We have taken care of ourselves physically, and our energy has returned. We have reflected on our life, talked it all through, and gained new clarity. We refined our sense of mission, found ourselves hopeful about the future. We read close to 40 books between us, some of them out loud to each other, and found “our well” filling up. We met leaders around the world and I established better connections. We encouraged some young leaders in the places God sent us. They encouraged us. We reconnected with family and friends. And I dedicated time to the cultivation of my creative side and emerged with a manuscript for a new book, a handful of poems, a few paintings, mosaics and stained glass, and some overdue household projects.



You said you refined your mission? Yes, you know all the experts on mid-life stuff counsel to do the internal work necessary to boil your calling down to a single sentence. In order to do that, you really have to focus, to decide on what is most characteristic of your gifts and passions, and how you want to spend the rest of your life. What do I want to do? I want to inspire and mobilize international momentum among students and urban leaders for the redemption and transformation of their cities. “Say to the cities of Judah, ‘here is your God!’” (Isaiah 40:9) “[Jesus] answered, ‘Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also, for that is why I came out.’” (Mark 1:38) “And the name of the city from that time on will be, ‘The Lord is There’.” (Ezek 48:35) “Seek the well-being of the city to which I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its well-being you shall find your well-being.” (Jer. 29:7)

What’s next? Top Quality Seed: With our local leadership team operating on all pistons I am free to focus on strengthening gains we have made in 26 other cities and responding to new potential work there. I am excited to see elements of our year-round program in Fresno inspiring similar components in Orlando, Philadelphia, Milwaukee, Greensboro and Tampa. In the coming months we are presenting two major training events to inspire and equip new and current Urban project staff to achieve similar outcomes. We are ramping up the resourcing of every Urban Project Director across the country. I am preparing messages for a major outreach in Boston, sending students to community development training in St. Louis, and writing material to help equip students to engage the church in relevant ministry in the midst of a migrant stream. And I am raising money for this expanded vision, my conviction and dream is that InterVarsity would grow to have the infrastructure it needs to offer the finest training of this kind in the U.S.. We will help more students become transformational leaders, that is, leaders with the motivation and skills to make a lasting difference in neighborhoods affected by poverty and violence.

This vision is larger than us, and we need your help. It is not something that our energy and determination will produce, nor can it happen overnight. It will be, by nature, the fruit of plowing, planting, risk, weeding, sweat, hope, heavenly timed rain, farmer-inspired prayers, and the mysterious, divine process described by Jesus himself when talking about how the kingdom of God grows. We live, inspired by a vision. We do our best to work toward it, we trust God for the rest.

We are rested, focused, ready to go. Thank you for helping us be that way. Those who wait on the Lord will renew their strength …” (Isaiah 40:31)

I Will Miss the Books

The gift of sabatical is primarily the gift of time. I read more than 30 books during this last 6 months, read them cover to cover, and smaller portions of many other books and articles as well. They covered a wide range of genres and subjects from books on spirituality and renewal to books on ministry, to poetry, to all kinds of fiction including mystery, fantasy, and historical novels.

When people ask me which of these books I would most recommend, it's almost impossible to answer, given their range. But I almost always find myself referring to the impact of Ronald Rolheiser’s Forgotten among the Lilies on the way I see myself, my expectations for life, and my place in the world. Rolheiser takes his title from the last line of St. John of the Cross' poem, The Dark Night of the Soul, "I have left all of my cares and anxieties, lost among the lilies." It has helped me lean into love as my sole foundation and goal and into my identity as a beloved.

James Houston, ex-Oxford don and founder of Regent College has challenged me to identify and give up the false self and find my true self hidden in Christ in a series of essays collected in the book Joyful Exiles (IVP 2007). Its not the kind of book one picks up casually to read for a few minutes, but what I am reading there is staying with me.

Limburg's Encountering Ecclesiastes was my first serious study of Qoheleth, and I am forever endebted to the way he has changed my opinion about this author, and forever grateful for his example of realistic faith.

And finally, an unpretentious reflection on the love of God by Floyd Roseberry, given to me by Tom Parsons, became God's whisper to me throughout my sabbatical. Living as God's Beloved is essentially a reflection on a series of quotes from Henri Nouwen, Thomas Merton, Evelyn Underhill and many other spiritual writers on our life as a beloved of God. I went back to this photocopied stack of pages again and again.

Each of the more than 3 dozen books that I read have become part of me in different ways. In some cases, their points, like gourmet meals presented on fine china, live vividly in my memory. Others, I digested more like good, everyday fare. They nourished me without standing out or being noteworthy. Granted, some went through me fast. Thankfully, none made me constipated.


With seven days left to this magnificent, 6-month Sabbath, I might have room for a few more. Any suggestions?

Build Something New

Tina will tell you that I hate anything having to do with maintenance, repair or replacement. After all the work and sweat and expense, you basically have what you had before. But give me a wall to rip out, a change to make, an upgrade to install, a room to renovate and I'm all over it.

This makes the current sound drifting in through my open screen this morning like sweet music to my ears. Just down the alley, on one of the many empty lots in the neighborhood, a new house is going up. The asymmetric pounding of hammers, the whir of skill saws, the rhythmic cadence of nailguns, Mexican workers calling to each other contrasted with the unlikely Tom Jones CD in their boombox (who knew?) all combine to make me feel hopeful, excited, even joyful.

It's the same emotion I experienced when walking into my friend Steve and Sheila's 108-year-old house in Lowell earlier this morning to see the once damaged, wide-plank, Douglas Fir floors being sanded and re-finished. The honey-colored beauty under my feet produces something inexplicable in me. The floors unify the rooms; they speak a language of restoration and generational connectivity, but also of hope, of opportunity, of progress, of the future, and again, of joy.

Have you noticed, the subject of building, of architecture, of design, of physical structures comes up time and again in the Bible and in teaching of Jesus -- a farmer building a grain tower, the architecture and decoration of the temple, the tower of Siloam, the parameters of the New Jerusalem. Certainly, Jesus used the common places of life as a vehicle to convey truth, including where people lived, worked and worshipped. And we are to, like Noah, look forward to taking up residence in a city one day, whose architect and builder is God. The description of Heaven is of a luminous city made of precious materials, with God himself as the source of light -- a place with a definite wow factor.

Here, in the waning weeks of my sabbatical, as I prepare for resuming ministry, I find myself longing for that kind of hope regarding the future, the hope of progress, the sights and sounds of building something new, of making improvements, of seeing change. I do not want to simply maintain what has been built in my work over the last decade. I guess that means that God has done his work in me, the work that I prayed would happen on this extended sabbath. He has sanded the floors of my soul, ripped out a few false walls in my spirit, and improved the infrastructure of my will. Now, God, make me into a builder.

Does anyone have a Tom Jones CD I could borrow?

Dominus Illuminatio Mea

I think it began with the sunset. As I descended Highway 50 over the El Dorado Hills, there it was, this magenta orange explosion of the horizon being swallowed by a distant peak. It was a gift, which 30 seconds later I would have missed. Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata had begun on the radio, and I smiled at the symmetry of it; sun and moon in the same thought.

Or, it could have begun with the pensive wave and intentional meeting of the eyes with my father from his porch as I drove away, moments earlier. Nowadays, every gesture, every glance from his 89-year-old frame seems pregnant with meaning, or potential, or sometimes a gnawing feeling of something missed. My mother was in tears at seeing me go. She’s in tears a lot these days, the confusion of dementia, the hardness of life at 87. Perhaps something about this parting made me susceptible to being stunned by the magenta-orange spectacle around the bend, which, with the brooding music roused something in me. I instinctively prayed to the God of Spectacle – heartfelt prayers for my parents whom I had just dropped off, for each member of my family, for our future.

But perhaps, actually, it began nine hours and 450 miles earlier that morning, with the hymn I sang with my father and mother and my wife at the ocean. I Cannot Tell Why He, sung to the Irish melody known popularly as O Danny Boy, had stung me with its simultaneous acknowledgment that there are things we don’t understand about the story of God yet there are things we hold in surety, His love for us, his sacrifice for us, our future with Him. I began to weep as I sang, providing a spectacle of my own for the moment. But they accepted my tears at these words. In fact, words have been the only things I have ever seen to make my father cry, most often the words of a poem. I think he understood.

So now on the road with dusk descending and the Sonata ending I continued on my three-hour journey home, when I was blindsided by the “it.” A full, yellow moon rose at three times its normal size, through Halloween clouds that lay in horizontal lines before it. It was interesting, but I have seen this before. Every few minutes I checked it out through my left window as I headed south. On the radio the music had been replaced by a reading of the book of Ephesians, no commentary, just the poetry of the King James translation read by someone with a voice that made you realize how true and beautiful the text was. As the night deepened the moon ascended above the clouds and brightened and then strangely took up residence dead center in my front windshield. At first this was a mere curiosity. How long would the straight road allow this? But after twenty minutes of driving into the moon the bewilderment of Spectacle returned. I hardly looked at the road. The truth of the text and the brilliant sphere illuminating my face – like a Mag Light in the teeth of God – stirred something in me and I found myself pouring out my condition to God as one does a doctor. As if God had said “open” I let Him look inside me with his lunar scope, let Him see what I was I longed for most. Holding nothing back I prayed urgent prayers of confession and the depth of longing for focus of one who has felt pulled in a thousand directions for too long. Through new tears I prayed that for the rest of my life, for the rest of my children’s lives, we would center on Christ, make Him our single-minded focus, sense His illumination, seek Him through our wind shield wherever we go. And I knew, as the brightness of moonlight blurred and refracted through tears, that the doctor was listening.

The moon shifted slightly after that, the curve of the road moving it left or right, still always dominant in my view. I was breathless for the rest of the trip home. It is impossible to express how focused and unique this encounter was, but I felt both examined and heard and healed.

When did "it" begin, this encounter with a God who took a thirty-minute, loving look at me? With the hymn? With the wave from my Dad? With the sunset and Sonata? Or perhaps, when my mother pushed for the last time and the doctor said, “it’s a boy.” Has there ever been a time when His light has not been on me, even if I am unaware?

Dominus Illuminatio Mea. The Lord is my light.

The Restless Gift

The window seduced me in that place, and I was powerless.
Outside, things moved: the flag curved in slo-mo,
The Cottonwood sloughed its wisps sideways
Newly clothed branches waved gently,
Mockingly? No, it’s just what branches do when nudged;
Unlike that place,
Beyond the glass,
Air motivated, pushed, stirred.
Things should move.

My 12 year old mind did, faster than the pace of the one talking
In that place,
Already moved ahead, beyond,
Answer anticipated,
All rabbit trails entertained at the least provocation, it ran
And ran, and ran.

Things should move. My knee did, constantly running in place,
In that place,
Like Wiley Coyote in the air over a cavern,
Bounced with an tornado of energy, sprung up and down with
A message that legs are for locomotion,
Jiggled a protest that mine did not fit
Under the desk anyway;
Instead I straddled it,
Like a too-old child on a plastic pony who realizes this
Should be the last time around forever.

My hands moved too, drumming what I imagined was an exotic beat
Which I knew everyone would appreciate, an incessant thumping with my special, thumb - middle finger combo that drove
Everyone to wish me gone from that place,
Gone through the window.

And that’s where I have been,
Through the window now for some time, running;
For years I have felt on my face what moves the branches, have run till my legs
Are bounceless. I have clambered over walls
Up ladders, through contests, have waded in the morass of
Daily mud.
I have moved, because that is what I do,
Who I am
In my own place.

How very strange that now in my middle days
The manic metronome is quieted. I gaze up at the window from
Below, see the yellow lights, the stately books resting in rows and feel moved
To climb back in,
Feel sure that I see movement
Yes, ideas waving gently,
In that place,
Mockingly? No, perhaps I didn’t know,
It is what ideas do.

You have given me restlessness, Still One,
My whole life through.
It has kept me from dissolving in place. It has beckoned through windows,
Called me to discomfort, and called me to quiet.
Here in the middle,
With legs that have found they fit under new desks,
Still I admit,
I see a pond at peace out the window, and my heart
Still hopes for a ripple.

The Relentless Cult of Novelty

Former Soviet dissident Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, in describing the emptiness of art education in the academy, addresses the foundation of higher education's rejection of traditional subject matter in favor of nihilistic, avant-garde approaches that are focused solely on technique. He calls it the "relentless cult of novelty," whose underlying quality is a "deep-seated hostility toward any spirituality" and enslavement to anything "new."

"This relentless cult of novelty, with its assertion that art need not be good or pure, just a long as it is new, newer, and newer still, conceals an unyielding and long sustained attempt to undermine, ridicule and uproot all moral precepts. There is no God, there is no truth, the universe is chaotic, all is relative, 'the world as text,' a text any postmodernist is willing to compose. How clamorous it all is, but also -- how helpless." (quoted in The Fabric of Faithfulness: Weaving Together Belief and Behavior, by Stephen Garber, IVP 1996)

Even as an art lover who has appreciated many forms of abstract art, I have stood in front of certain modern art exhibits (I won't say all, and I am not generally indicting moderns art) and have struggled with the clamor of which he speaks -- the noise of clashing techniques for the sake of technique, the dominance of irony, and expression not rooted in any belief system, floating without connection to anything substantive or capable of making a positive contribution. They are indeed helpless to contribute anything. The one, overarching value of "new, newer, and newer still" is actually a form of enslavement -- and here is an irony for you since irony is so highly valued -- since the academy has rejected tradition, so much of art is cut off from memory, leaving new artists to themselves to explore age-old issues (Solomon was right - there really is nothing new under the sun) all the while thinking they're being new or novel.

No, I'm not thinking of doing a degree in art education. I am just noticing how dependent great art is on story. The grand story. Without that, all we are left with is expression. This is true not only of pictorial art but of literature as well. The great English mystery writer and theologian Dorothy Sayers favored the poetry of statement over the poetry of search. Search is so often a black hole of longing and yearning, sucking everything into it, while statement is, by definition, a deep well which is rooted somewhere, which has a point of view -- as Bakke says, a view from a point -- and which seeks to give something.

There's a homeless man sitting in the shade of a tree across the street from my living room. He's drunk, taking drags on his rolled cigarette and shouting occasionally something about Buddha. If I were to paint him in the style of one of the modern artists in a gallery I visited last week in Cambria, I would focus more on the application of paint than on the subject. I would paint him in isolation divorced from his context, or I would invent one, placing him intentionally next to Christians emerging from Sunday school. But if I painted him in the style of Van Gogh, or sculpted him in the style of Rodin, I would hope to learn his story, focus on his inherent dignity, and explore how it connects with the larger story of creation, fall and redemption. Perhaps I would attempt to depict how God's image was imprinted on the man. The lie is that there is intrinsic value in the novel, the new, the newer still. The truth is the value comes from how what we create connects to the story of God; that connection forms the foundation for making a positive contribution.

Turns out, this is true not only for art but also for everything else we would attempt to make: a household, a ministry, a relationship, a family, an impact on our city. Each of these things draw their value from the way they relate to the story of God. It's our job to make the connection, rather than chasing after the elusive god of novelty -- whether its a "new" ministry model, the "latest" home design, the "newest" fashion, an "updated" love life, or the hot-off-the-press- must-have theology.

Worn smooth by salt and sand
This feather wood, in the shape of an open hand
Cradles what is laid across it –
Another sculpting from the sea,
Drifted stick refugee,
Sloughed without pain from a
Distant tree –
It seeks the lifeline of the first,
Nestles in a gently curving space on the
Knotted, weightless woody palm,
Its own little valley where it rests
In divine balance.

And I, plopped seal-like on my low rock
Letting eternity slip through my
Fruitless fingers
Am the final force in the completion of their
Destined union:
I am the Matchmaker of Moonstone Beach.

Something More One Day

A friend gave us a slab of green marble a decade ago. It's been sitting behind a shelf in my spidery carraige house collecting dust. You don't throw away marble. I knew it would become something more one day, even if for the time being it was a haven for black widows.

Then Jameson mentioned that he needed a writing desk to work on. After dragging ourselves without luck to half a dozen furniture stores and even a trip to IKEA in Sacramento, it dawned on me that we could use the marble and build something ourselves. We found some beautiful cherry to surround the marble. With a clear finish on it (no stain), the amber swirls really look beautiful next to the marble. Jameson and I had never built a piece of fine furniture before. We designed it together, measured together, cut the pieces together, re-cut the pieces together, corrected our mistakes together, and sweated together in the workshop. When it was finished we shook our heads and marveled at the outcome. It was the "something more" that was meant to be. What a great project this was for us!

It's true of me too. I am raw material -- albeit more like sandstone than marble. Parts of my life are standing alone in a forgotten corner, gathering dust and who knows what else. But God knows my potential, perhaps even has some other costly material to surround me with. And someday, someone will stand over me too, smiling with pride.

St Patrick's San Simeon Breastplate

Tina and I memorized St. Patrick's Breastplate early in our sabbatical. It's the one that starts "Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me, Christ beside me, Christ to win me, Christ to comfort and restore me ..." It helps center us, and we especially love it when we are walking.

As I sat on the beach at San Simeon last weekend, I wondered what St. Patrick would pray if he were with me. Here's my go at it: St. Patrick's San Simeon Breastplate

Christ in ebb and Christ in flow
Christ as tired tides recede
Christ on sand at sunset’s glow
Christ in driftwood and seaweed.

Christ as cares expand to oceans
Christ as oceans crash ashore
Christ as crashes cause erosions
Christ, remove what’s not secure.

Christ is carved in pelican beaks
Christ is pooled in crags with glee
Christ through snails and starfish speaks
Christ through green anemone.

Christ I come, though feebly so
Christ your wideness beckons me
Christ I come to face the flow
Christ to shape and make me free.

Build something tangible

"What do you do?" I get asked on planes, trains and in rental car agencies. I get asked in polite company, and in the heart of the 'hood. My answer is always something like: "I mobilize and train students to follow Christ by moving into high crime, high poverty neighborhoods, and make a transformational difference there." Sometimes it ensures a quiet flight, sometimes elicits a blank stare, sometimes entices a genuine conversation. But the conversation inevitably leads to the question of our product. What kinds of outcomes are we seeing? How do we measure success? After all, success is everything in America.

Even my sabbatical has to have outcomes. Here they are as I described them three months ago: 1) Decompression. 2) Discernment. Now at the mid point I have added: 3) Demolition and 4) Design. Its because after three months of contemplating, writing, reading, thinking, watching, walking -- I need to DO something; I need an outcome I can point to. A wall removed between our kitchen and back office, new ceiling fans in both rooms, the range repaired, the plumbing fixed, a writing desk designed and built with my son. We NEVER have time for this stuff, and we are on a roll. Next month it will be the stairs that have fallen down and the back deck that has suffered under the feet of a thousand neighborhood kids.

FUNNY THING about fixing stuff. With my mind relaxed and my body engaged in physical activity my thoughts are freed to chew on all the lessons we were taught during the first three months. And now that we have a table in the kitchen, I have a place to sit while thinking.

productivity vs. fruitfulness

Tina and I like to get things done. To watch Tina at 6:30 am, when her resevoir of energy is at its fullest, is like watching one of those speeded up movies with the characters buzzing to and fro. It's a blur. And nothing gives me greater pleasure than attacking a project. I am focused, nothing deters me and I don't stop just because I'm tired, dehydrated, experiencing chest pains -- little things like that. When we do things together, we are productive. It's how we're wired. We've always been that way. I really don't expect it to change much. In fact, there's not much incentive to change. American culture rewards that makeup -- it's the standard. I often resent it when I don't feel others approach their lives or ministries in the same way -- when they're not working as hard as us, when they seem to judge everything by how well it fits with their gifts, their energy level, their need for peace or time off or fun. After all, its better to burn out than rust out, right?

Being on sabbatical has challenged me. To be sure, we have time for productivity. We have accomplished household projects with delight. We have checked things off the list. Whether we have been at home or abroad, we have arisen to each new day with the knowledge that it is a gift not to be wasted. We are to be stewards of it. And for the most part, this has meant being sure that I work on the sabbatical assignments I was given, that I maintain productive spiritual disciplines, that I not engage in trivial pursuits. I even researched and wrote a book. So why am I feeling challenged?

It is from the the idea of letting my field lie fallow. Unproductive. It is living in that place where my life circumstance dictates that I believe in the idea of replenishment. That soil, when given a rest, will become more fertile. Sabbath -- ceasing from work -- becomes the seedbed for greater productivity.

Enter Henri Nouwen, who would take issue with the way I am using the word "productivity." He would applaud my desire to be a good steward of my life. But he would give a gentle corrective. "A call to live a fruitful life does not necessarily imply a call to be productive." (Lifesigns: Intimacy, Fecundity, and Ecstasy in Christian Perspective, Image Books, 1986) While acknowledging that productivity is good, he addresses the potentially improper motivation in productivity, and the false promises of productivity to deliver what it does not have the power to, when he says, "in our contemporary society, with its emphasis on accomplishment and success, we often live as if being productive is the same as being fruitful. Productivity gives us certain notoriety and helps take away our fear of being useless." He goes on to say that lives that are anchored in God's love, and not lived in fear (fear of rejection, fear of uselessness, etc.) are free to bear fruit, fruit that is a gift, an automatic outcome of who we are. "Whenever we trust and surrender ourselves to the God of love, fruits will grow." "Some of us might be productive and others not, but we are all called to bear fruit; fruitfulness is a true quality of love."

Undoubtedly Tina and I will maintain our list of projects. We will check things off the list with vigor. Weather on sabbatical or in the heat of ministry we will "work as unto the Lord" (Colossians 3:23). But I know that one outcome of this sabbatical for me will be the greater freedom to let things rest and trust that fruit will grow. At the end of the day, the point is to live a fruitful life, not just a busy one. Jesus said, "I appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last" (John 15:16).

Oxfres - a tale of two cities

Oxford its not, but Fresno is home. It is a mercy of God that we returned to a Fresno June that contained temperatures in the 70's. It's been beautiful. We are glad to be home.

Fresno has no Thames but it has the Kings. It has no Lewis or Tolkein but it has Saroyan and Masumoto. It has no Eagle and Child but it does have Sequoia. It has no Christ Church Cathedral but it does have St. Johns. Students here are in shorts and flip flops, not the scholar's gown and formal attire of the high table, but they are students aspiring for something better nonetheless. There is only one Oxford, and it will forever move nand inspire me like no other city can. But there is also only one Fresno, and holds me like no other city.

I shared with my friend Matt this morning that if Oxford reminds me how I am wired, how God put me together, why I notice and care about the things that I care about, and frees me be that person, Fresno reminds me of my resoponsibility to put who I am into service for the sake of God's Kingdom.

Its a tale of two cities, and the way they speak to my life.

Our friends have welcomed us back, and the house was in pretty good shape too, thanks to Jameson and his friend Tim who held down the fort in our absence. Tina is back at work full time, and I have turned my attention to framing the next three months for maximum focus on what's ahead both institutionally and professionally.

Goodbye Oxford, For Now (snif)

One should take notice when it occurs to one that he is content, at rest, and full of peace. That sensation is rare enough for me over the last few years so as to stand out, jump up and down, slap me in the face, even. One should notice what one was doing when one got slapped.

I was in the Bodleian, holding a leather-bound 17th century poetic prayer in my hands, thinking about the relationship between the writer's life and my own, while looking out the beveled glass windows at clouds floating over the top of one of the Oxford Colleges, All Souls I think. I had just sent my manuscript in to the publisher and had time to explore for the fun of it -- no agenda, no commitments. Just the freedom to learn for the joy of it, and the time to consider and digest what I've read. Thank you, God.

Which makes saying goodbye to Oxford all the harder. There is no equivalent. Yet the challenge will be for me to invent ways to feed my spirit as I have done in this place, which seems so set up for it. But as C.S. Lewis yelled to Sheldon Van Auken as he ran across the High Street after their final meeting, "Christians never say goodbye!" Lord, I would love to come back some day.


We say goodbye to new experiences as well. Can you tell how excited (read: terrified) I am to try the national sport of England?



No, that''s not Tina bowling. It's Helen Lake, daughter of our hosts, who took mercy on the American and let me hit it a few times. But I can now tell you the difference between a "four" and a "six," what an "over" is, and the difference between one-day cricket and a test match. This has to make me the Fresno expert on the sport.


We say goodbye to new friends, Deborah Lake and her husband Richard and kids, Helen and Matthew and Deb's mother Jennifer. We are so grateful for their openness and generosity, and we will never forget it. We will always remember the village of Eynsham, and their 300 year old home. I have the dents in my forehead and scalp to help me remember (low ceilings and doorways), although now I also have amnesia from the blows, so I won't remember how I got the dents.



And goodbye to old friends Ken and Phyl Bennett, former wardens of the North Oxford Overseas Centre where we once lived, who have continued to pray for us, serve us and love us over 18 years. Here, they took us to Stratford Upon Avon, the birthplace of Shakespeare. Also, goodbye to Venu, Geetha and Sangeetha who hosted us, fed us delicious Indian cuisine and taught us the joys of netlesss badminton.


Tina returns to work full-time next week. I enter phase two of the sabbatical -- planning for the our National Urban Program and personal future casting.

Goodbye Oxford, for now. We'll call you.

"Lord afford a spring to me,
And help me feel like what I see."
- John Newton

Lost? Nevaaaaaaaah! I've a right to wander

The English take great pride in their "freedom to wander" -- a right to walk through all manner of field and farm, a right guaranteed by law. This is how we found ourselves (OK, yes, utterly lost) in the middle of some knee-high crop of something that looked rather like razors on a stalk than some thing I could cook and eat, utterly confused as to the difference between a hedge and a row, and the fact that the blue line on the map didn't seem to be where the little river we had crossed seemed to suggest it would be. We ended up in the back of some farm with a farmer looking at us like, "oh great, another set of Americans who can't read a map. When I asked if I could take this road back to the village he said, "You could, but I think they already have one there." English humor. OK, I made up that last exchange, but it could have happened that way. We did eventually make it back to our house on the village square.

Wandering is what sabbatical is all about. Yes, we've wandered through villages, under the spires of Oxford, throught the bookstacks at the Bodleian Library, in and out of concerts and lectures and exhibitions. Tina and Deborah have wandered picking Elder Fowers and later mixed their own Elder Flower Cordials. When we wander, we place ourselves in a position that anticipates serendipitous events -- graces from a loving God who likes to jump out from behind a bush or bookstack and say "surprise"! You have to get yourself lost every once in a while -- not in control -- to experience these.

Our friend Geetha took us to Dorchester to visit the village and cathedral. What beautiful days we have had with Geetha and her husband Venu while here.

Their daughter Sangeetha hosted us at the Trinity College High Table; for 500 years students have dined here. They recited the grace in Latin.


ONLY SIX DAYS LEFT IN ENGLAND
Already I am savoring the last moments here. I will miss the honey-sweet fragrance and soft steel blue of the Ceonothis bushes, the white lace of the Blackthorne tree, the Van Gogh-like yellow of the vast Rapeseed fields, the soft breeze throught the stained glass windows of the Bodleian Library Upper Reserve, the lunchtime recitals at Hertford College, and all the bitters of the Kings Arms, the Eagle and Child, and the Turf. I wan't to remember the freedom to hold in my hands precious, crumbling manuscripts from the 17th century, the treasures to be discovered because of the luxery of time and the priviledge of a Bodleian card. I want to remember the open handed graciousness of our hosts, the Lakes, as they have welcomed us as temporary members of their family and let us dine at their table and partake in the rhythms of their lives. I want to remember so many who took initiative in our lives, who drove us around, who cooked for us, who included us. We do look forward to coming home, but I will also be sad.

Oddities in Oxford (besides Randy)

A shark swam into the roof of a house

In Oxford, and not through the water.

It dove through the tiles, the result of a joust

A shark swam through the roof of a house

By a man with a crane and a bit of a grouse,

Though I cannot conceive how he caught her.

A shark swam into the roof of a house

In Oxford, and not through the water.

- RWW 2007

Bungee for Jesus

A sanctuary with roots in the 13th century normally means quiet and hushed tones, unless you realize that an austere reverence is not building the British church -- then you go for Bungeeeees! Tina and I helped manage the bungee run for kids at the village church of St. Leonards in Eynsham, as part of a community outreach. It was a scream.

.



Where there is a will, there is a way
The saga of the Inklings chairs has a happy ending ... we hope. To recap, Randy found that the Mitre, one of the pubs the Inklings used (C.S. Lewis, JRR Tolkein, Charles Williams and others) was renovating and selling their chairs. Some famous bottoms might have pressed these cusions, so he couldn't resist. He paid €2 each (about $4). But how to get them home? Shipping would have cost $340! The answer: dismantle and box them and check them as luggage. He'll be sipping tea in them soon and thinking about all the people who laughed at him.

Some thoughts from Forgotten Among the Lillies, by Richard Rolheiser:
The last line of St. John of the Cross' classic The Dark Night of the Soul says that he was able to "leave his anxieties and cares, forgotten among the lillies." Rolheiser picks up this theme and has written one of the most powerful books on this subject I've ever read. At the end of the book he gives some "guidelines for the long haul", which I share here with you, though a summary can never capture the beauty of what went into it:

1. Be grateful: never look a gift universe in the mouth. To be a saint is nothing less than to be warmed and vitalized by gratitude. We owe it to our Creator to appreciate things, to be as happy as we can. Resist pessimism and false guilt.

2. Don't be naiive about God. Religion is not mere consolation. It puts a belt around you and takes you where you would rather not go. Demands from God always seem unreasonable. Learn to wrestle with God.

3. Walk forward when possible. When impossible, try to get one foot in front of the next. Expect long periods of darkness and confusion. Jesus cried, the saints sinned, Peter betrayed.

4. Pray that God will hold onto you.

5. Love. There are only two tragedies: not to love and not to tell others we love them.

6. Accept what you are: Fear not! You are inadequate! Accept the torture of a life that is inadequate. Understand your own brand of martyrdom.

7. Don't mummify: Let things die. Let go.

8. Refuse to take things seriously: Call yourself a fool often. Laugh and play and give yourself over to silliness.

9. Do not journey alone.

10. Go soft. G.K. Chesterton noted that rocks sink, birds rise, hardness is a weakness, fragility is a force.

It may take me until the next sabbatical to appropriate this perspective. I may need your help.

Two Triolet and a Silly Haiku

Here are two 20th century Triolets that I came across in my research that I had to write down. Triolet is a French poetry form, begun in the 14th century, that repeats the first couplet at the end, and the first line of the couplet in the middle, and that contains a specific rhyming pattern.

This first one is from an English Lieutenant who fought in the trenches of France in WWI, and wrote a book of triolet from there. This poem is his dedication:

Because you once were good to me
My Lord, accept these trench-vignettes
And may you like each jeu d' esprit
Because you once were good to me
But if you don't, just think: "well, he
At least acknowledges his debts,"
Because you once were good to me
My Lord, accept these trench-vignettes.

- Lt. CGL Du Cann, from Triolets from the Trenches, 1917

And this one from an Oxford man, who writes with the wit and comfort of his class:

Christ said, "Blessed are the poor"
Matthew slyly adds "in spirit",
But in spite of him I'm sure
Christ said "Blessed are the poor."
This the rich could not endure,
So they bribed the saints to queer it.
Christ said, "Blessed are the poor."
Matthew slyly adds, "in spirit."

- Oswald Couldrey, from Triolets and Epigrams, 1948.

And here is a silly Haiku that I wrote for my 10 year old friend Laura:

Dove in the downspout
Her spring nest perched at roof's edge,
Though up high, lays low.