Some Pics for the Rellies & More Helprin

Got to see Jay, fresh in from South Africa, while we were in Oklahoma City. He brought a disc with about 200 pictures of Anna on it and we all crowded around Josh's Mac (he brought the whole thing) ooohhing and aaahhhing. Cute kid. Melani was sorely missed, only a few more months until that wonderful accent is heard on this side of the Atlantic. Jay had tons of great stories and plenty of thought provoking insights, he was very homesick though and ready to get back to his girls. The entire family had a great time, Granny Betty, my grandparents on my dad's side, mom and dad, and all the brothers, wives, and children were together once again. I don't think we've had that much fun since Brad's wedding. Thursday night we played a great round of Loaded Questions and laughed till it hurt. With all the fun memories lingering in my head it was, for the first time in forever, very hard to get back to work on Sunday night. I just wanted to savor it a little bit more.

More Helprin, this from The Pacific and Other Stories and very appropriate considering the great picture of Anna: "I think we are in a lost age, in which holiness and charity have been traded for the victory and penetration of knowledge, though all the knowledge in the world has not brought us any further than where we can go without it even in the outermost halls of grace. I believe that more is to be known and apprehended from the beauty of a face than in delving, no matter how deep, simply into how things work, no matter how marvelous that may be. The greatest substance of the world is immaterial; the province of the heart, and its study cannot be forced or reasoned. Merely to touch upon the edge of things in parsing their mechanics is to forswear their fullness, for the entry to this fullness lies not in science but in art."

Too Much

I was recently reading a book written in 1953, in which the main character had a biscuit and coffee for dinner when he got home from work. His wife was pretty excited because she had just made the biscuits and was anxious for a little feedback. It was a pretty intense read, full of suspense, drama, incredible dialogue, etc... and yet here I am a week later and all I can think about is those dang biscuits. I want to know what it would be like to eat a biscuit for dinner, push away from the table, go about my chores, put the kids to bed, read for a while, and finally lay down around 10 p.m., satisfied, with nothing but the bitter brew keeping that little biscuit company deep inside my gullet. What freedom that would be, to be satisfied with so little.

We live in the land of plenty, and I enjoy it, I have no problems with the land of plenty. Okay, that's not true, I am horrified by Wal Mart for aesthetic reasons and I am paralyzed by anything with more than two options. Aside from that however, I have few bones to pick with the current age of prosperity. What I do have a problem with though is my inability to restrain myself when enormous amounts of delicious foods are available to me almost without limit. As I watch my pant size ebb and flow with tidal regularity, I know that I am missing out on more than rock hard abs. Slowly but surely, pleasure and satisfaction are eroding in the sea of Too Much.

Twilight is the sweetest time of the day for many reasons, most notably its brevity. Like summer in Wisconsin or Sunday morning, we savor twilight because it is delivered in the most fleeting fashion that assigns it incredible value and nearly demands that we revel in it. There is something about things in small or limited quantities that either amplifies or reveals signifigance. I want to rediscover the value of food, specifically great food by learning to consume it in increasingly smaller portions. I have no idea how I am to go about doing this, my will power in this area being practically non existent, but I know it is the only way my soul will survive and my body will enjoy my brief visit here to the land of plenty.

A Picture I Didn't Take & Other Miscellany

My brother- in-law, Mike took the picture of Enchanted Rock posted above the last time he was here and I always enjoy it when it comes up on my screensaver. Enchanted Rock is this huge dome of mostly bare rock(seen in the foreground) surrounded by various outcropping, boulders and the odd live oak poking through. Absolutely breathtaking, especially this time of year.

I did get a persuasive fiction recommendation from my friend John for the book Too Late the Phalarope by Alan Paton. I inhaled it, it impaled me (heartbreaking), and now I recommend it to you. Great study of the inner world.

Granny Betty e-mailed in response to the AM Radio post to tell me about some of her childhood memories involving the radio including her father anxiously awaiting the farm report and hoping the batteries would stay charged long enough to hear it. I accidently deleted the e-mail so I can't include a direct quote here. She also reminded me not to knock technology because it is what helps her keep in touch with her kids and grandchildren. Good point and it made me realize how often times those (i.e., me) who long for "the good old days" are those who never had to live through them in the first place.

Tomorrow is supposed to be a really windy day. Can't wait!

Cultivating Beauty

From Zion, perfect in beauty, God shines forth.

God calls us to both participate in and transform our culture. Amidst the moral, immoral, and amoral elements of culture all across the world God has planted divine seeds of truth that point to Him. (For example, the Passover in ancient Jewish culture preparing and pointing to Christ's death for the roughly 1,400 years preceding the actual event.) As Christians we are called to find and nurture these seeds, to help flesh them out, to allow them to grow to maturity. Because these seeds are so ingrained in the culture, and because we are in part products of our culture, when they bloom in the ways God intended, his power and love are easily perceived and comprehended. And yet because we are fallen men, these divine seeds have often been allowed to grow in barren and misguided ways. Our first impulse when we see these aberrant growths is to curse them and withdraw from the culture that produced them. But we must learn to see original intent in the twisted branches and like a great gardener or sculpter reshape and guide until beauty breaks forth. The power to transform comes first from affiliation, the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us, and then transcendance, we have seen His glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father full of grace and truth. We must engage in our culture, and when necessary stand in stark relief to it, steadfast like a boulder in the river.

Our culture has an insatiable appetite for beauty, the evidence for which is apparent everytime you turn on the tv or wait in line to pay for groceries. We, along with many other cultures past and present, have crossed one too many lines in our quest for temporal and quickly fading beauty. But as John Eldridge points out in his writings, desire reveals design. We have such appetites because we were created with an enormous capacity for beauty, a capacity that will never be fully realized in this life, in part because we would die on the spot if it were. God, as the psalmist said above, shines forth, perfect in beauty. This is a beauty that is expressed through His attributes, the essence of who He is, as well as the physical manifestation of His prescence (Rev 4). In the things He has created and in the hearts of those changed by His Spirit we can see muted reflections of His beauty. Because of the reflective nature of this beauty, directing men from the beginning of time to His love, we must as Christians, cultivate, protect, and champion beauty in its many forms.

From a practical standpoint this means a myriad of things I don't even pretend to know, but here are some ideas. a.) Becoming gardeners. Both my mother and mother-in-law have excelled at this and to sit in either of their yards in summer is to know that God exists. b.) By exposing both ourselves and our children to great art and timeless music. Our culture is full of mediocre expressions of both, counterfeits, that serve to conceal our hunger. As Christians we must champion and promote excellence in the arts which will only deepen and increase the hunger for eternal beauty. c.) By cooperating with the Holy Spirit as he seeks to weave compassion, grace, gratitude, and courage into the fabric of our personalities. All of the attributes of a Spirit-led life are beautiful, but these four move me when I see them expressed in others. Seeing others act in these ways compels me to respond likewise. Jesus was all these things to perfection in the most beautiful life ever lived and through His power we can faintly but powerfully echo in a way that will resonate with those searching for Him. d.) By caring for and beautifying public spaces. e.) By encouraging those who are gifted in the arts, architecture, design, city planning, etc.. to go for it with all they've got for the glory of God. f.) To look up at night, around during the day, and at our neighbor with kindness.

This is just the beginning of a thought process. I am nothing like what I aspire to be. For example, I desperately need to mow my lawn, I enjoy Will Farrell movies, and I am not very compassionate, grateful, or courageous, but a desire has been born. I want more.

Psalm 119: The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

I have always identified with Peter, he of the brash statement and subsequent belly flop. After one too many fruitless promises to God, I now just start laughing whenever I start making one of these inner vows and I feel like God is laughing with me. Not in a mocking way but in the intimate way that those closest to us can get away with when our foibles are revealed. Kind of like this, me: "What was I thinking?" God: "Yeah, what were you thinking?" Guffaws all around. It is at this moment of clarity when my delusional fog has been lifted by the light of his love that I hold out my hand and ask for help. Psalm 119 is one of my favorites because it really illustrates this pattern of human failure and divine intervention.

At first glance the psalmist appears to be one of those annoyingly pious jerks we'd all love to throttle. "Early in the morning before the sun is up, I am praying and pointing out how much I trust in you. I stay awake through the night to think about your promises." Just in case their was any confusion about his elevated spiritual state that has transcended the need for a little shut eye he also declares, "At midnight I will rise to give my thanks to you for your good laws." My reaction to this guy would be something like, "go ahead retard, just don't wake me up." He makes such bold declarations as, "With my lips I recount all the laws that come from your mouth," "I will never forget your precepts" and "My soul is consumed with longing for your laws at all times." Granted, it was a different culture, a different time, but this is still a human being, and that is what makes these statements so ridiculous. But then he gets honest, and it is beautiful. "Open my eyes, teach me, let me understand, strengthen me, direct me, sustain me, redeem me, deliver me, defend my cause, preserve my life." These are just snippets of his many cries for help in his quest for holiness. Consider the absolute dependence in "turn my eyes away from worthless things", and "turn my heart towards your statutes." "Turn me;" this is the request of a man who has lost the use of his limbs and cannot look out the window without assistance. It is the deeper meaning behind the cries of an infant on his back too long. Absolute dependence. And here lies the true picture of our relationship with God. Left to our own devices we have neither the desire nor the willpower to follow him. He sweeps in and there is this fragrance in the air, desire is born, a hunger acquired. He throws us on his back and we soar, our hearts light and free, and then somewhere along the way we mistake his power for ours. I am writing this not so much for you, this is something I've got to declare. I can do no good thing on my own. I have evidence. So why is it so hard for me to bend my knee? To rest? When flying, why do I think it is my wings that take me to "such great heights"? And after falling so many times, why do I persist in this arrogance?

It is because of this internal battle that I identify so strongly with the apostle Peter and with the father in Mark 9 who exclaims the great paradox, "I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!" Jesus woos us to himself with a persistant, undeterred grace and we respond presenting him with all that we can muster, a mustard seed at best, and full of impurities at that. He takes this imperfect microscopic offering and he breathes life into it and it begins to grow and as it grows our capacity to love Him grows with it. Grace, undeserved love. Absolute dependence. Turn me towards the light that I might live.

"Keep me far from every wrong; help me undeserving as I am, to obey your laws, for I have chosen to do right. I cling to your commands and follow them as closely as I can. Lord, don't let me make a mess of things. If you will only help me to want your will, then I will follow your laws even more closely... I have wandered away like a lost sheep, come and find me." -From Psalm 119:29-32, 176 Living Bible

Verdant Pages of Life and Light

My favorite author by a longshot is Mark Helprin. He has ruined me, in the way that exceedingly great things do, to the point that I can't imagine reading any fiction but his. I suppose that one day I will be open to reading other people's fiction and will take any suggestions here, vehement proposals only.

How to describe him? Hmmm... regal, dense, layered, whimsical. If his writing were a song it would be part Enya (lush, atmospheric), part Springsteen (brawny, masculine), part U2 (packed, weighty). Oh, and funny too. Really funny. And for a guy who can load a sentence full of beauty and meaning, his stories read pretty fast. He somehow manages to intersperse these incredible ink arias with straightforward humorous narrative so that you end up being pulled through his books with an almost giddy glee.

From The New York Times Book Review, "I find myself nervous to a degree I don't recall in my past as a reviewer, about failing the work, inadequately displaying it's brilliance." Ditto. Here's my shot at it; reading Helprin is the equivalent of being on an Italian farm at twighlight when the light is low, yellow and full of dust. You and your loved one are sitting in the middle of the field at a table spread with white tablecloth watching the sun sink as you slowly savor cheesecake and espressos. In the background, standing knee deep in the fertile crops, is a 62 piece orchestra performing Beethoven's Ode to Joy.

I have read Memoir from Antproof Case, A Soldier of the Great War, The Pacific and Other Stories, and his latest Freddy and Frederika. I wholeheartedly endorse all but the last. Helprin's characters tend to be aesthetics who live over the top, principled lives, consumed by one thing or another. His characters are so appealing because they live out of their hearts, without fear or compromise. Helprin drops little nuggets of truth into the dialogue or narrative that will have you inwardly screaming, "yes....yes! I've never put words to it before, but that is how I feel!" I will post brief excerpts of his writing from time to time and I'll leave you with one now.

Backstory: A British paratrooper has just injured himself severely on a solo jump behind enemy lines. He is in agonizing pain but knows he can help save lives if he can only complete his mission. He keeps fading in and out of conciousness while attempting to work through the pain.

"For the second time on the roof he awoke in heat and glare, and when he heard the shelling pick up he stirred, eager to get about his work now that he could. He was sick, and he wanted to stay still. The slightest movement was painful and nauseating. Though his fever had partially abated, even in the absence of morphine he was not quite himself. He knew that it was best not to move, that he had to let things settle, and the prospect of reopening his wounds by strain contradicted every natural impulse.
But upon going into battle-at the instant he volunteered, in the moment he accepted his orders, when the plane left the ground, and when he had stepped from it into explosions and flak-he had already written himself off in the quiet way that allows soldiers to do their duty even unto extinction. The more he presumed he would not last, the better he was able to take satisfaction from doing what was required. The delight of honor unknown to anyone but himself would have to substitute for a life that no longer lay ahead."