I recently decided to create images for the Topical Memory System published by the Navigators, using NASB as the Bible version. I’m posting these here so that hopefully someone else who finds them useful might also benefit.
I recently decided to create images for the Topical Memory System published by the Navigators, using NASB as the Bible version. I’m posting these here so that hopefully someone else who finds them useful might also benefit.
I paid my parents a visit recently after a number of years overseas, first as a military member and then as a contractor. Because I live on Okinawa, visits are far less frequent than I would like.
My father has been dealing with Parkinson’s Disease for several years now, and each time I’ve visited, it’s been a surprise to see the impact to his condition. Some years ago, it was relatively small – the involuntary shaking of his hand or the quivering of his lip. Then, more recently, there was weight loss, weakness, frailty, difficulty speaking.
For most of this year, as I understand it, my father has been confined to a bed. Cared for by my mother, my brother, and a team of hospice nurses and assistants who visit briefly every weekday. I was unprepared for the extent of his decline, even though I was rushing home to spend time with him for fear that his condition might worsen. Now he fights with hallucinations and has moments where he can’t hold down food.
Spending time with him reminiscing and interacting was deeply meaningful and important, even while it drove home how much he has changed from the physically strong man I looked up to as a child. Sitting with him, holding his hand and comforting him through a hallucination, shook me.
I know it’s often a natural cycle. The parents take care of the children who grow up to take care of the parents. (Really, my brother and his family have borne that responsibility, and I’m grateful.)
That it’s natural and common doesn’t make it easier.
During this visit, we also stopped by our old house, which is in the process of being sold and renovated. Some months ago, my brother and his wife got a condo close to them for my parents to live in, so the old house is emptied of almost everything of value except the memories.
The piano I learned to play on growing up is still there. My dad’s train set that he spent years building is still there in the basement next to my old room. The backyard is a shaded refuge under the trees we planted as saplings in our youth, which now stand tall in the sky.
There was a bittersweet parallel that I couldn’t ignore.
This old house,
A home for many decades,
Still standing,
But advanced in years,
Dented, damaged,
Declining, nearly forgotten,
Seemingly abandoned.Hair disheveled like the grass,
Long and swaying in the breeze
Limbs and muscles weary, bruised,
Cracked and crumbling
Like the walls and stairs,
Weakened from years of use.Hands and arms shaking, trembling,
Unable to hold their grip;
Pieces of loose and broken tile
Sliding about with each passing step.
Skin splotched and stretched thin,
Wallpaper torn and hanging,
Discolored yet still warm
With better memories back then.Struggling to maintain control,
And humbled by inability to do so,
A flooded basement warping the wood walls.
The creaking floorboards and supports
Like crackling of aged joints
That have borne more than their share
Over many months and years.Stuffy air lingering throughout the house,
Stagnant, damp, a little off,
Like ragged, labored breathing
And a respirator’s constant sound.
Every room emptied of all but frames
Of furniture beyond repair
Places once filled with so much life,
Now stripped and bare.
This house no longer feels like a home.But the outward appearance doesn’t tell
One’s history and significance over a lifetime,
Just as the frail body of an elder
Reveals nothing of their deeds and exploits
In their prime.Once these creaking floors that sigh
Echoed with pitter-patter footfalls
And the nurturing love of a mother
Quick to answer her child’s cries.
Once these walls resounded, stirred
With the laughter of children And the stern
but loving guidance of a father.
Once the sturdy bricks and doors
Held safe a family, like strong arms
That stretched and joined
And formed a covering
Like the interwoven branches
Of the towering trees
That form a canopy of shade
And comforting peace
Once the keys of the dusty piano
Rang out with delight,
Clear and strong
And filled the house with joy,
Poured out from hearts full of song.To look at it now,
This house doesn’t seem like much.
In disrepair and discomfort.
Ready to be repossessed.
But there is One who sees beyond
What earthly eyes and thoughts assess
Who knows the value, holds the deed,
And cherishes what He purchased.This house may seem in shambles now
But the real renovation is nearly done
Beyond the veil, a Builder waits
With the keys to a glorious mansion
The One who truly buys and flips
The worst of run-down properties
Who turns their rubble into gold,
Disgraces into testimonies,
Who gathers up the ruins and
From ashes draws forth beauty
Safe and stately far beyond
The hand of decay or disease.
Broken structures He rebuilds
Remakes, revives, restores, until
Souls stand alight with glory filled
Before the Throne; their voices tell,
With faith made sight, yes, it is well.
I’d like to think that I maintain an open mind
Or at least I am not shy to take in what I find
But no matter how I’ve tried to see a view larger than mine
“It seems like you have picked a side,”
They say of me sometimes.
The comment leaves me wondering,
Who determined what sides exist?
Who set up the boundaries?
When did they announce all this?
Maybe there’s some information,
some important tweet I missed
That settles the determination
Of who’s for and who’s against
And what the issue really is.
In life it seems that so few things
Are cut so clear as A or B
But so many refuse to choose
To see all these complexities
And so we shout down any views
With which we feel we disagree
And paint them not as they communicate
But as unsafe extremes
It’s easier to reject than it is to reflect
It’s easier to ignore than it is to learn more
It’s easier to smear or sneer than take the time to truly hear
It’s easier to shut out than to pause and think about
And while I’d like to think that my own views are still quite fair
I must admit, I’ve found a side that I would like to share.
I choose the side that says the ones we authorize
To handle lethal force while risking their own lives
Should be respected, yes, of course,
But it should come as no surprise
That those trained and equipped with more
Would have a standard strict and high
I choose the side that sees a disconcerting pattern
Of deadly tragedies and lives that should’ve mattered
Dying doing things that I and my kids can do every day
Like driving,
gaming,
jogging,
sleeping,
going to the park to play.
I choose the side not satisfied to look some other ways,
Who don’t decide that they’re just tired of Facebook posts on race
Who don’t reply with “What about—” deflecting conversation
Who won’t sit silent with their doubts and worries for our nation
Who call out the hypocrisy when one side does what’s wrong
When just a few years earlier they sang a different song
I choose the side that says that we can look at more than one
Issue that’s dividing us from what we could get done.
We don’t have to act like we can only focus on one problem
When there’s plenty we could do if as a group we tried to solve ‘em
I choose the side that says we ought try to empathize
I think it’s worth a thought to see the struggle from another’s eyes
I choose the side that says that I know I don’t have it figured out
But listening to different voices and learning to shut my mouth
Has made some space for growth and maybe even fostered doubt
Where compassion and humility can find some fertile ground
I choose the side that doesn’t jump to find justification
And lose my mind when I see facts enduring alteration—
Obscured interpretation of a hurtful situation
And the sure perpetuation of unfounded allegation
And immediate assumption of some disqualification
That allows us to negate the arguments and proof we’re facing—
“Why, any lie is better than to be confronted by
The possibility that I could have to change my mind!”
It was not too long ago that I suppose I chose a side
When I watched all those before my eyes start drawing battle lines
When they dug their trenches and, with thoughts of war preoccupied,
They hunkered down into the ideologies they fortified
I recall an ancient tale of a city become battleground
One army huddled in their walls, the other army circled ‘round
Their leader then encountered one who called himself Commander
And he questioned this Newcomer with a single-minded manner
“Are you for us, or for our enemies,” he asked
“Neither,” came the answer that he never would’ve guessed
We might think it’s binary, every issue black and white,
Only options A or B, there’s a wrong and there’s a right
But I shall not be beholden to this warlike apparatus
And I will not offer loyalty to those seeking more status
Those who walk with certainty that it’s their camp that God inhabits
Think it fair to challenge me, “Why have you turned your anger at us?”
I do not stand my ground with pride, but I consider this:
I do not claim, “God’s on my side,” but ask, “Am I on His?”
Your promise still stands,
Great is Your faithfulness, faithfulness.
I’m still in Your hands.
This is my confidence:
You’ve never failed me yet.
Elevation Worship has a song called “Do It Again” that is high on the CCLI and music app charts for the genre. It’s a strong tune with a driving beat and a lot of room to rock out with the worship band, yet the song also has a heartfelt, universally relatable theme, somewhat like a prayer:
God, this bad situation hasn’t changed yet, but I’m trusting You while I’m in the middle of it.
My wife and I both love the song, and I worked it into a testimony at church, relating a particular instance of God’s goodness to my family in the midst of a crisis (which I’ll share in another post).
However, my wife is not at all a fan of one word in the song: yet.
“God hasn’t failed us at all,” she explains, “and He’s not going to. We may not always get the answers we want, but God doesn’t let us down… and that word ‘yet’ makes it sound like maybe He might.”
I agree.
And yet…
To me, there’s this humanity, this frailty revealed in that wording. There’s a weakness that lurks in the lyrics just like it lurks in my heart, where even though I belt out that “This is my confidence: You’ve never failed me,” a little choked up voice adds a “yet” with a quiver or whimper.
Doubt whispers that maybe this is the one time. This is the exception. “Yeah, God came through before, but how sure are you?”
Maybe what I thought God was going to do isn’t what He has planned. Maybe the storm isn’t going to miraculously clear up and the waves aren’t going to suddenly fall into calm. Maybe He’s not going to say, “Peace, be still” this time.
I do have a testimony to share about how God met me and my family at a point of desperation and need. I have plenty of evidence of His goodness expressed through others and through sudden changes in our circumstances.
But I also see some dark clouds of the unknown looming over me, and the horizon is dimmed by billowing storms of delayed answers to prayers. It feels like as soon as one batch of questions and concerns are resolved, they tag new ones into the ring.
I apologize as I’m vaguebooking a bit here (we’re not on Facebook, so, blankblogging? blurposting?) mainly because I don’t even know all the questions or details of some of what’s on my mind.
One of the memory verses I am reviewing this week is Isaiah 41:10. It feels more appropriate than I would like.
“’Do not fear, for I am with you; Do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, surely I will help you, Surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.’”
Isaiah 41:10 NASB
I also relate all too well to the man who–in response to the assurance that with God, all things are possible–cried out, “Lord, I believe! Help my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24).
Surely He helps us in times like this. Great is His faithfulness, and His promises still stand. He’s never failed me…
Yet.
A few weeks back, I wrote a song — something I haven’t done in quite some time — based on a similar theme coming to me from several angles.
I had been reading “Accidental Saints” by Nadia Bolz-Weber, a Lutheran pastor I had seen popping up on my YouTube feed. I don’t agree with everything she has to say, or how she chooses to say it… but when she starts talking about the grace and love of God, she is so on point.
Additionally, I had been playing keys for worship at a few churches, and singing songs like “Who You Say I Am” or listening to songs like Lauren Daigle’s perfect “You Say” which capture the theme of our identity in Christ.
Contrast that with the reality that I know how messed up I am and how often I blow it, how often I miss the mark, how often all my striving or all my lazy giving up just isn’t enough. And yet God’s love is there, even in the midst of my abject failure.
I thought of a great picture I saw where an artist captured the constant sense of “I should be doing X” whenever I am doing Y. I should be blogging, so I blog… but then I think I should be getting my work stuff done, so I get on that… but then I think I should be going outside and getting fit, so I do… but then I realize I should be at home spending time with my family, so I do… but then I remember I meant to write more of my book, so I do… but as I’m writing, I realize I don’t get enough sleep, so I go to bed early, but then I wake up and realize I should have been blogging…
It’s easy to dwell on all the voices in life that whisper ‘should’ and tsk-tsk every time I don’t. It’s easy to constantly reach for the next thing and the seemingly better thing and miss all the good things going on around me. It’s easy to think my worth is found in what I do and what people think or how many likes or shares or retweets I get (and thus it’s easy to despair when I don’t see those).
In those times… heck, at all times, I need Someone to remind me of what’s true.
Remind me of Your mercy, remind me of Your grace
Given to the undeserving, who are welcome in this place.
Remind me of Your patience for the weary and the faint,
Remind me of Your favor toward us sinners You call saints.
Keep me in that place of awe and wonder
Where the power of Your grace still pulls me under
Awash in Your mercy, lost in the thought
That the very One who died for is the One my soul fought
Yet You heal and restore me, the sinner that You sought
And transformed in Your glory, the life that You bought
With the blood You poured out for me, my sins have been washed
And exchanged for Your righteousness there upon the cross…
Remind me of Your promise, and of Your faithfulness.
Remind me that nothing I do will make You love me less.
Remind me of Your calling, and what You called me for.
Remind me that nothing I do will make You love me more.
Remind me of Your favor toward us sinners You adore
Remind me who You are
Remind me who You say I am
I hate tomatoes.
I always have. I don’t know why.
They’re disgusting. They’re wet, nasty chunks of blegh. They pollute everything with their slimy seeds, so that even if you pluck them off your burger or salad, you still end up tasting them.
Actually, tasting the flavor isn’t the problem. I love ketchup and
pizza sauce; I even like tomato soup so long as it’s smooth liquid
instead of being filled with pieces.
I used to hate peppers the same way I hate tomatoes—for as long as I
can remember. I would find diced green peppers in an omelet or larger slices in some oriental dish then set them to the side of the plate in revulsion. Tabasco sauce? How about Tabasc-NO. Peppers, I felt certain, were the worst… almost as bad as tomatoes.
Salsa was pure hell, chunky style.
Then one day I tried some Tabasco sauce on a bit of meat cooked on a campfire, and it was amazing. A few years later, I had no option but
to eat a meal with diced green peppers mixed all throughout. They
added a great flavor to one of my favorite dishes, and I had to
reconsider my ridiculous food aversions.
Sometimes the things we “know” with absolute certainty from a young age are actually false. Sometimes, we’re just reinforcing mistakes we’ve made or bad beliefs we’ve accepted as fact–to the extent that we’ll actually argue with people about them.
It’s pretty stupid, but it feels so sensible at the time.
I found myself in that position (yet again) last week when a friend
used the word, “cretin” in a way I thought didn’t quite fit. “That’s
not what that word means,” I proclaimed.
(As a writer, of course I know all manner of important things about
words and their meanings, both subjective and literal.)
Maybe from context clues, kid’s cartoons, or childhood assumptions, I took “cretin” to mean something along the lines of “villain” or
“troublemaker.”
“Is that what it means?” my friend asked. “I thought it meant ‘idiot.’”
To the Google-machines!
He was right. The answer flashed onto the screen.
Cretin. Noun. 1. (informal, offensive) a stupid person (used as a
general term of abuse).
Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary defines our modern use of ‘cretin’ as:
“(informal) a stupid, vulgar, or insensitive person: clod, lout”
Google also showed us the Urban Dictionary definition: “A person that is: brainless, stupid, child-like, and full of pointless information
that makes no sense and appeals only to other cretins.”
Now, I won’t recommend Urban Dictionary as the go-to for defining
words—especially while at work, where your network usage might be monitored or scrutinized. That said, their definition struck home for me in an unexpected way.
How often does my faith get wrapped up in child-like arguments and
pointless information? How much do I get wrapped up in nit-pick
debates about politics and living out the Christian faith? How many
discussions quibbling over theological details have I dived into on
Facebook? How many tweets have I fired back in response to a
disagreement over something that doesn’t matter?
In the Church, we find so many reasons to disagree and dispute, to
decide and deride and divide. We split into denominations as often as we split hairs. We say nice things about how “those believers are
pretty good and all,” but we know deep down that they’re missing out on so much (which, thankfully, God has revealed to none other than us).
I wonder at the division over politics and other issues in our
country, and then I realize how often we have the same mentality and spirit operating within the Church. At worst, we demonize the other denominations, highlighting all their faults and flaws while hiding our own. At best, we engage in lengthy dialogues about minor details – which method is best, what style is ideal, what personal subjective preference should everyone take as objectively superior, and so on.
As I considered how wrong I was—while feeling absolutely convinced I was correct–about the meaning of ‘cretin,’ I wrote the following in my journal:
Am I a cretin about the things of God? Do I focus my attention on the little details that matter nothing in the grand scheme of eternity? Do I focus on whether tongues is this or that, whether one can say or sing “Reckless Love” and be theologically sound, whether the Trinity is best described in this or that complex explanation instead of a simple albeit imperfect analogy? Do I get wrapped around these silly details while missing the point of the much greater matters?
I think of the Pharisees and their tithing of mint, cumin, rosemary, and whatever else… And Jesus looks at them like, “Yeah, ok, you do those things, and that’s great. But how about justice, mercy, compassion? Have you thought about doing THOSE things?”
Are we a bunch of religious cretins today?
Are we missing out on something God has provided for us to enjoy or called us to do?
Are we standing around debating which is the proper oil to use in our lanterns, while the Bridegroom passes by?
He sets a table for us, a wonderful feast to which we’ve been invited.
Am I in a tizzy over how the silverware is placed or the quality and
color of the tablecloth?
Am I pushing away the plate like a child, scrunching up my face
because I just KNOW that I hate tomatoes?
North Korea launched a long-range missile past the island of Okinawa today, ostensibly to launch a satellite, and quite probably as part of their ongoing efforts to develop a better ballistic missile program in conjunction with weapons of mass destruction.
My thoughts on this are a little rambly… to include the question of whether ‘rambly’ is a word.
I stood at the park with my 5 year old around noon, watching picture perfect clouds stacked in different layers coasting across the blue sky. He climbed on all the playthings at the park, and then I gave him a ride home on my back, listening to him laugh with delight.
I recently played a bunch of Fallout 4, exploring a ravaged Boston battered by radiation storms and post-apocalyptic cruelty. Coupled with today’s news, when I looked at those clouds it struck me that it would not take a whole lot to bring the beauty around us crashing down. Some combination of insane or fearless world leaders, political brinksmanship, and powerful weapons–that could do the trick.
My idealism wants to rail and shout. What sort of madmen would threaten something so pure and peaceful as a 5 year old climbing and playing with abandon on a bright sunny day?
My cynicism knows the horrors wrought by human nature, and my pragmatism understands that I and my family aren’t immune to or protected from events that can shake the world.
For a few minutes, while the Internet connection held, I played a video game for a while. Destiny is a sci-fi, first-person shooter with open areas on several planets in our solar system. My character stood on Venus, killing evil robots and aliens. My 10 year old son recognized the level and watched for a moment, then asked, “Wait a minute! Why is there grass on Venus? It’s super hot. That isn’t right!”
And that led to a conversation about the far-future, sci-fi dream / hope of terraforming other worlds to make them habitable for humankind. I laughed at the idea, but remembered a recent article suggesting the sort of “colony” we actually could put on Venus (in theory) in the distant future: a suspended cloud city that would rest not too high in the upper atmosphere as to freeze and not too low as to suffer the inhospitable heat.
But with all that comes the realization that this will almost assuredly never happen in our lifetimes.
So we talked about what it means for humanity to reach for the stars. “Basically, one meteor strike, one nuclear war, one significant enough calamity, and everything ‘human’ ceases to exist. We have this one planet, where every single human has ever lived and, for the near future, will ever live. We don’t want all of that swept away in an instant. People want to spread that risk out a bit.”
Questions of faith arise in our home. Is that like the Tower of Babel? Is that an expression of human arrogance or pride, making more of ourselves than we ought, or not being content with what we have? And how do we reconcile that desire with what the Bible says about the end of the world?
Oddly enough, my justifiable fear of what we know could likely happen to end the world aligns pretty well with the Bible’s promise of an end to this world–coupled with wars, famines, diseases, and calamities. And that raises challenging questions.
But I also find great hope–both in what my faith has taught me to expect if/when I see those promises come to pass, and in what the best and noblest expressions of human capacity show us is possible when we put our minds and resources toward fantastic, even ‘impossible’ goals. We’re coming to understand so much about the universe around us. We live in a world surrounded by knowledge and technological miracles compared to just a few decades ago, and that trend is on track to continue for the foreseeable future.
Depending, of course, on the paths we choose.
May our faith in something greater than ourselves and our hope for a better future guide us to always take the path that leads to a park at noon on a sunny day, and maybe even grass on Venus.
Seventeen (and a half) years ago, I knelt in this spot under a blue sky and asked my girlfriend to marry me.
Wifey and I would take long walks away from our on-base dorms, strolling through lawns and parks, up and down the hills on Kadena. We’d often sit on a bridge, under the stars, legs dangling off the side, hand-in-hand. Or perhaps she’d snuggle up next to me, head on my shoulder as I put my arm around her to hold her close.
There used to be a bridge here.
You can see two marks where the edges once stood. I proposed on that bridge. When we married, Wifey came from the States to rejoin me on Okinawa. And sometimes we would revisit “our” bridge. I’m pretty sure we even took our oldest children to see it (not that they cared, of course. They were very young, and it was just a concrete bridge.)
In the grass across from where the bridge once stood, I laid down under a cloudy night sky, crying out to God, overwhelmed with frustration and anger at myself for various failures as a new adult and Airman. I
dealt with my dissatisfaction with mistakes I’d made, and I thought about my childhood faith.
It was there that I decided I had to really live what I claimed to believe, or forsake it all. I chose the former.
(Rationally, I understand that there’s no theological reason to look for God up in the sky, as though He lives out in space somewhere and we all live down here like some fishbowl He watches when He gets bored.
Rationally, I know that the universe goes on for billions and billions of light years with whole other galaxies comprised of nearly-countless stars spinning and swirling through a cosmos full of other stuff we can’t even yet comprehend. So my musings as I sat in the grass staring at the night sky were pretty insignificant in the scale of what we know is out there.)
Back then, Wifey and I would walk for hours. And with Okinawa being a Pacific island, we sometimes got caught in sudden cloudbursts of rain.
One time in particular, the rain became a torrent and we took refuge in the doorway of the nearest building, a couple blocks away from our dorms.
It rained for an hour or more, solid sheets pouring from the heavens. Finally we got so desperate that we prayed. “God, I know it’s silly… But could You stop the rain so we can get home? Please?”
We went back to talking. Several moments later, when our conversation paused, we realized it was silent outside our refuge. The rain stopped.
We set off for the dorms, shocked and thankful. And just as we reached our dorms, a drizzle started up again.
(Rationally I know that rain can start and stop at any time, and an island like Okinawa has unpredictable weather. There are perfectly natural explanations for how this happened.)
Years later, I had a similar experience on the way to work. In a torrential downpour, I prayed for the rain to stop even while admitting it was a purely selfish request.
It did, and I walked into my building dry when all my co-workers who arrived both before and after me were soaked. The disparity was noticeable enough that people actually asked how I got in.
(Rationally, rain is intermittent sometimes. This one experience is no reliable proof. And there have been times I’ve prayed, but still got wet.)
For years, when I drove past the bridge or jogged around the nearby track, I would see the bridge and smile. I would remember my promise to Wifey, or maybe think of my re-commitment to Christ. And I understood why various Old Testament figures were so quick to set up a monument (usually rocks piled into an altar) for special moments in their experiences with God. Spatial memory–our ability to recall a particular place or setting–is a powerful thing.
Rocks can get tipped over or scattered. Bridges can be torn down. Buildings are destroyed and rebuilt (or not).
But spatial memory locks a moment or concept in our minds to a specific place, and that doesn’t fade or break down over time.
Rationally, I know there are plenty of facts about the world around us, some of which can seem to conflict with faith as I currently understand it.
On the one side are the experiences and the intangible unprovable tenets of faith.
On the other side sit the cold logical facts and all their implications about the world and humanity’s place in it.
It often feels like quite a formidable gap divides the two.
That’s okay. There’s a special place in my heart for bridges.
This is the third of five “God Leads” devotionals based on my experiences as a young Christian man in the military.
GOD MAKES A WAY FOR HIS GIFTS IN US
…According to your faith be it unto you. (Matthew 9:29, KJV)
“He’s so amazing,” I said. “I wish I could play and sing like him.”
Friends from church invited the singles over for spaghetti. While we ate, we watched a video of a musical minister leading worship from a piano. I started playing with our church worship team using one of this singer’s most popular songs.
“His lyrics minister so well,” I said. “They speak right to people’s needs.”
Our church bass player agreed with me.
The host looked us both in the eye. “I see God doing the same thing in you two.”
The bass player said what was on my mind. “Oh, no, not me. I couldn’t do that.”
The host stood up and declared, “Be it unto you according to your faith.”
I was shocked, frozen to my seat.
“Little faith, you reap little,” he continued. “Big faith, you reap big.”
The words echoed in my thoughts for an hour. I drove back to church long before the evening service and sat down at the piano.
“God, if that’s really something You’ll do, then… have Your way.”
I started playing. I chose a few chords, thought of some words, and sang. In two hours, I wrote four songs.
Since then, I started hearing music in my pastor’s sermons. I wrote over one hundred songs. We translated one into Japanese, and several became regular tunes at our church. I believed God, and He answered.
But I am also haunted by one thought, and I hope I’m wrong:
I never saw the bass player write any songs.
Application: Following God’s lead means taking chances and trusting Him for results.
