Morning Flames

After my shower and shave I took my time down the stairs to an empty kitchen. Rachel had just left for work minutes earlier. I put some water in a pot and ignited a hot blue flame on the stove which licked the metal bottom of the pot. In my groggy morning state, I stared at the burning flame and the bubbles in the water which were beginning to form.

I am in a small tent pitched on cold crushed pine needles at the base of a granite bowl suspended in the high Sierra Nevada mountains. Above, the sky is flame-blue, streaked with clouds and bouncing off the  cold crystal lake. Little circles grow as trout snack on little bugs. The sun is not yet visible; its halo ignites the jagged sawtoothed peaks to the east. I'm pulling on my pants in the tent, which ruffles and bends as my brother steps out and pulls a fleece over his head. I see my dad sitting in jeans on an old pine log, folded at the waist over his knees as he works on something between his boots with his big hands. It's a little butane burner he props up and balances with one hand and with the other strikes a match. The hot flame roars and spits and is soon

Will You Give Me A Drink?

Yesterday in high school group we told John's story of the woman at the well. Afterwards, we gave students the opportunity to write their deepest secrets. Is there a time you have felt lonely or secretive? What was that like? How does it feel to write your secret? How would your parents or teachers react to your secret? How would Jesus respond to what is on your paper?

Three high school boys shared around my table. One was open and friendly, pleasantly aware and blessedly naïve. One was deep in pain, writhing in silence and fear. He clearly wanted to be left alone but he is also desperate for somebody to understand him. One was foreign, a lonely student from Germany struggling to speak English phrases. And in each of these boys I saw reflections of

Forced Fasting

Slushy rain splattered our windshield on our way east through frozen blueberry farms to the doctor's. The flush red twiggy plants, bare to the cold air, stuck in blank snowy rows that we flipped like pages as we passed. Each fruit and leaf had earlier been picked by winter's chill. Similarly we passed mowed corn fields, beheaded like statues, chopped as a pine forest for lumber. Tall stood

Life Is Pain, Highness. Anyone Who Tells You Differently Is Selling Something

Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of forty days before Easter during which the church celebrates the wilderness, the suffering of Jesus. We come together, usually meditate on Psalm Fifty-one, think on suffering, and then choose something to fast from for the next forty days until Easter.

I knew this girl in our youth group who every year fasted from candy and chocolate. We all knew; she complained about it often. But I didn't come up with very good ideas either. I felt on-the-spot pressure to act more spiritual than I felt. The best idea I had was one year when I chose to drive no faster than the speed limit. For forty days I learned patience and to submit my actions to a higher law. I think those are good things. The funny thing is, the speed limit is always posted. I didn't add some new rule to my life to

Frühlingsglaube*

I was backing down my driveway today when I drifted left into a giant pile of snow. Throwing it into first, I spun my front tires in ice, lurching the vehicle back and forth. Rachel got the neighbor and came out to help push. I got out to check out the situation and landed my once dry foot into a slushy puddle.

My goal for the year has been to find full time employment. In my mind, that would be the marker of assimilation into a new

Sunrise in the Snow

Out in the woods on a winter morning somebody stokes a fire. I can see it burning 

through the snowy trees. The whole world huddles 

around the warm center, rubbing our hands together in the morning light.

Perchprints Now Dimples

I put the dishes in the drying rack and stand still to admire the snow falling out back. It's the kind that falls heavy like rain and stacks thick upon itself. A flutter in the corner of my eye is a bird flitting from the wire to the branch, flashing white stripes beneath his wings. Another flutter, this time a bright spatter of red against the white. It's a cardinal, majestically perching upon a wire. She flashes her red wings and swoops to another branch. I become aware there are a dozen birds, jumping from branch to branch, branch to rooftop, wire to branch.

Why do they keep moving around? Are they startled when a snowflake lands upon their tail feathers? Are they looking for their

Enter Rest

I set aside yesterday as a sabbath. Monday is a funny day to choose as a sabbath, I know. Despite my attempt to clear my schedule of everything, there were some inevitable tasks that had to get done. When my wife asks me if I have cleaned the shower yet, it's hard to say, "no, sorry hun, it's my sabbath today" as she's running out the door to work for us.

As it turned out, the content of my "sabbath" was not very different from any other Monday. Then what is a sabbath? It is a day in which the intentions of my heart are to rest in God, to listen to God, to celebrate God, to enjoy God. On a sabbath, I open my day to the Holy Spirit and say, "Here are some things I was thinking about doing, but it doesn't really matter what we do. I really just want to be with you. What next, God?" So I began with prayer* and then did everything else with the intent of

One Year

How quickly life changes. Most of the time it's before I know what to do, before I get there, before I say the right thing, before I understand it. I thought moments like this came at the peak of great crescendos, emotion building around a single, focused event until the beautiful resolve of a significant moment. This is far from reality. Instead, all moments, great and small, are shouting in the cacophony of the present. 

It was one year ago today that I got this call from my brother while I was sleeping. My sister-in-law is in labor. "Hold it," I tell myself. "Stop, slow down. Slow down this moment until I am there." Rachel and I raced from San Diego to Los Angeles. In the car, we found out our nephew was born. He came