Thursday, June 28, 2007

Candid Camera

I wish I could paint but I'm dismal at it...I have to use the paint-by-numbers in order for anything to remotely represent something recognizable. Beauty is in my soul but it sure is hard to get it out of me.

I watch musicals because I love to see graceful people dance, but me...I have two left feet. Gene Kelly can belt out, "Gotta dance!" and my feet starts tapping to the rhythm but that's as far as it goes. I can sing a little (on key too!) but after years of playing guitar with my small chubby fingers, I can only manage about fifteen chords so my repertoire is very limited.

How can I express what is inside of me? I searched and tried and failed and finally found something that captured what I wanted to say...yes, by Jove...you've got it! Just point and click! Thank God for the camera.

Now I can't match Steinbeck's Travels With Charley but I've had my own adventures with my Minolta.

Setting: Yosemite Valley
Year: a dozen years ago maybe
My age: none of your business
My weight: definitely classified
Literary type: non-fiction with just a tint of literary license
Time: an hour before sunset

Let me set the scene for you: I am standing in a verdant meadow with my zoom lens and eye fixed on Bridal Veil Falls. I am focused on one thing...capturing beauty, nothing else matters at the moment. My friend is standing by my side watching me take the picture and begins to move a healthy distance away.

friend: "Um, Helen, I hate to disturb you but you are about a foot away from a hornet's nest."
I made no comment and kept on clicking. Her voice rises in urgency as she ponders whether I am deaf as well as blind.
friend: "Did you hear what I said?"
me: "Yes" (I am still looking through the view finder and clicking away)
friend: "Don't you care?"
me: "I'll care right after I get this shot."
Silence reigns--my friend is musing whether I am insane too.
me: "Is the hornet's nest to the right or left of me?" I asked not bothering to glance around: I'm still glued to my Minolta.
friend: "It is to the left of your left foot."
me: "Good, I'll make sure not to move there."

Now I hear the buzzing sounds...four more shots and my roll is finished. Now I raise my head and notice my surroundings. Sure enough the hornet's nest was right there and the little buggers didn't seem too happy with me. For five minutes I was rooted to the spot like Mount Rushmore and now I high-tailed it like greased lightning.

Was I so cruel as to leave my friend behind? No way--she was the runner and I was weighted down with a ten pound camera case.

What was the happy outcome? Well, I captured the shots I wanted and my friend who thought I had totally lost my mind became fascinated with photography. She is now a first rate photographer. Isn't amazing what God will use to grab people's attention?

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Love Gives Life

Love gives life to everything.
Hate devours itself.

Good releases everyone.
Evil imprisons itself.

Faith believes for everyone.
Fear implodes on itself.

The world is vast for what is right
and narrow for all that is wrong


GANDALF

Ancient order, tales untold
One of the nine--leader bold
Quick to anger, quick to laugh
Wise in counsel, stifles wrath
Elves’ advisor, Strider’s friend
Frodo’s mentor, Saruman’s end
Glamdring’s owner, Shadow-fax tamed
“Mithrandir” Elves have named
Middle-earth’s flame, Arnor wields
Mordor’s darkness, hope to shield
Balrog’s terror, old man’s might
Fell in shadow, rose in white
Third age over, mission done
West is calling, joy has begun


FARAMIR

Faramir, faithful son
life almost over before it’s begun.

Greater wisdom than brother had
favored by Gandalf made your father mad.

Passed the test where Boromir failed
to give up the ring, your father railed.

Pride the portion of Denethor
fanned into flames by Mordor.

Faramir’s love could not quench the fire
his life salvaged from his family’s pyre.

Raised up to be Aragorn’s friend
Stewards of Gondor coming to an end.


EOWYN

The darkness has passed, the frost over.
Gentleness wins, hardness blows cover.

Faramir’s love has defrosted your heart.
Eowyn, you will have a new start.

Say goodbye to roughness and Rohan.
You will be a princess in Ithilien.

No longer a shield-maiden you will be
but a healer loving all beauty.


ITHILIEN’S GLOW

Proud maiden with heart of stone
Faramir’s love did much atone.

Winter is broken by the Spring
with all the promise it can bring.

Despondency with all its gloom
couldn’t force its way into your bloom.

Raven back and golden hair
mixed to the delight of Gondor's stare.

May your laughter mingle so
adding joy to Ithilien’s glow.


Sunday, June 24, 2007

Make Them Laugh

I envy my brother because he has perfect comic timing. He remembers jokes he learned in high school. I'm great as an audience member because I am very empathetic but I can't tell a joke for the life of me. I'm just not wired for it.

At family gatherings he's cracking us up and I can't even remember the punch line a few minutes later because the words and the order get all jumbled in my mind. If I do deliver the joke in right order then I miss the timing and there's no pizazz. Life is just not fair sometimes!

What I lack in the joke department I make up for in imagination because I think like Gary Larson. Alas, I still mourn the loss of The Far Side, don't you?

I'm very visual so if it looks funny than it is funny to me... I still laugh when I watch I Love Lucy, Perfect Strangers, Laverne & Shirley or Home Improvement.

Now my sense of humor has caused me some embarrassing moments because slapstick is funny even if someone gets hurt and that someone is me. I've done my usual trip, flip (wipe out on water skies and ripped my shorts) and hard landings. Besides a few bruises the only thing that really smarts is my pride and the swift kick to my ego.

The problem with me is that the lines don't get embedded in my memory...the pictures do. Someone can bring a box of candy to the office and tempt me with sweet confections and I start laughing. Co-workers back off thinking I've lost my mind but at that moment I can picture Lucy and Ethel stuffing bonbons in their cheeks and down their blouses.

See how dangerous it can be to be me? If I had been born two hundred years ago I would have been put in a padded cell but since I was working and living in San Francisco at the time...I was pretty normal, considering.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Name That Tune

There I was with little tykes all around me abandoned in the sheer joy of the last day of school. Not a sigh on the air; I was smiling too. Out of nowhere I started to hum a tune...and then broke out audibly with a "ha ha ha...you and me," and caught a few curious glances from parents. I put a lid on the singing and my brain started to work on the song. Where in the world did it come from?

"Teacher, what are you singing?" a first grader asked. Beats me, I thought. Then as fast as white lightning came the knowledge that I had been humming one of my dad's favorite tunes...Little Brown Jug. "Umm it's just a song my father used to sing a long time ago," I replied lamely.

I could tell that the boy was eager to hear the whole song but I was not up to recital. The parents of my first grade class are kind and understanding but I don't know if they would tolerate me singing..."ha ha ha--you and me--little brown jug how I love thee!" especially at a Christian school. I know I am unorthodox but I have some sense of decorum.

Crazy how certain tunes can come out of nowhere like that and almost crucify you. The last time I heard that song I must have been nine or ten. I remember how my dad loved to belt it out especially after he had a swig or two. When he drank he was very happy...no moody blues with him and of course the song got lodged in my memory.

I remember that he used to sing military tunes too. My mother found out the hard way when her three year old son came home from play one day singing..."You're in the army now! You'll never get rich...you son of a b----! You're in the army now!"

Ah yes, fond memories. After my mother lectured my little brother she turned on my poor father and told him what for.

You never know what you may sing when you're tipsy or what song your child will have seared in their subconscious...so beware, be very aware the next time you are tempted to hug that little brown jug.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Sleepy Hollow

I turned around and noticed the sun dipping below the horizon. I checked my watch in the vanishing light. It was almost 6pm. The sign said clearly that all the gates would be closed at sunset. Great, I thought! I had spent too much time lingering around the literary corner of Sleepy Hollow pondering over the graves of Hawthorne, Emerson, Thoreau and Louisa May Alcott.

I yelled to my friend and we both got in the car. We headed for the main entrance but the gate was locked. I began to sweat. I swerved to another gate and found that it was also locked.

"Why do these things always happen when I'm with you?" my faithful friend opined. I didn't reply because I was too busy praying under my breath. "Dear God, please let us get out of here! I promise I won't visit anymore graveyards for a long time."

My imagination was already taking over and I wondered what it would be like to be locked in a cemetery overnight. With a name like Sleepy Hollow I expected to be decapitated by the Headless Horseman before morning's light. In a flash my fear was no longer based on a character from a Washington Irving's novel but on Tolkien's Black Riders...

NAZGUL

Deaf to laughter, blind to cheer
Famine’s hunger, drunk on fear

Hell’s own offspring, living undead
Pursuing the nine, mission of dread

Clothed in darkness, shivers up the spine
Deeds of evil, poisoned wine

Made of nightmares haunting our dreams
Extinguished light, phantom teams

Shrieking menace, forever fell
Vacant goodness, putrid well

Hideous cries, consuming hate
Sauron crushed, death thy fate


A shiver ran down my spine. A rising hysteria took hold of me and I wanted to scream aloud, "We're going to die!" Now my fancy filled in nine back riders trying to overtake my car.

"Oh good!" my friend's calm voice penetrated my momentary insanity, "The last gate is open!" I left Sleepy Hollow with deep gratitude and trembling heart. It was enough of a close call to extinguish any desire to visit old graveyards for at least the next few years.

Sunday, June 17, 2007

In Praise of Fathers

I want to warn everyone right off that this is not a PC blog. If manhood being torn down and fathers ridiculed in sitcoms are more to your taste than please avoid reading any further for you are in danger of being traumatized.

I happen to be one of those rare birds who does not think that masculinity and femininity are the same thing in spite of all the gender bending and blending going on in our society; that giving a truck to a little girl and doll to a little boy are not going to change their natures. I say exuberantly with a dash of rebellion...viva la difference!

I want to honor all fathers on this day of days because I am unable to thank my own father. I lost him when I was thirteen and time has not lessen the ache. He was part of "The Greatest Generation" and fought in WWII, the Korean War and also worked behind the scenes in Vietnam. His grave marker has all three wars engraved on it; he was awarded two purple hearts.

I understand the pain this day can cause for some people whatever the reason...there are no perfect fathers yet don't we all have baggage and still strive to do our best?

In an age where euphemisms, semantics, and PC control our world: where unclarity in definitions can give birth to muddled thinking--I prefer another time to draw forth a tribute to fathers. I could not have put it better than Rudyard Kipling's hallmark poem...

IF

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)


Friday, June 15, 2007

LOVE IS TRUE

Everything I love
has something true in it.
I cannot love a lie.
I may be deceived by it
but I can never love it.


CONDITIONING

Testing comes in the heat
not the shade.
Cowards are formed in retreat
not the raids.

Patience comes by waiting
not by chance.
Strength comes by climbing
not happenstance.

Faith works in valleys
not on the hills.
It is fed by love
not by the thrills.


THE STRUGGLE

The struggle builds the muscle.
The strain brings the gain.

It takes strength to live right.
It’s so easy to lose sight.

The path of least resistance
will always have insistence.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Building a Bridge

I'm passionate about shopping...I HATE it! I shop like a guy: I go, get it and get out quick. I don't care about bargains. If I want or need it I'll pay the price.

Now God has a sense of humor because He gave me a mother who lives to shop--it is her life's blood. She's a seasoned campaigner. The following is a true incident:

Setting: JoAnne's Fabrics
Time: 8 years ago
Background: approaching the counter with my mother.
Dialog or dialogue (if you are old fashioned)

mom: "There is a tiny rip at the edge of this fabric."
me: "Can't you just cut it off when you get home?"
mom: "I'm going to ask for a discount."

I take a fugitive glance behind me. There are at least five impatient women who want to finish their purchases so they can get home to start sewing.

mom to lady at counter: "See this tiny rip?"
The lady bends down for a closer inspection to see the microscopic tear.
mom: "May I get a discount?"
The counter lady is a little flustered, "Um, I'm not sure; let me call for the manager."
me: "Just pay the price!" I beg my obstinate parent.

I hear impatient sighs behind me and the five minutes it took for the manager to show up seemed like an eternity being stretched on the racks. Now my mother had the joy of convincing the manager while I began to wipe sweat off my upper lip.

mom: "How much of a discount can I get?"
The manager pauses in thought.
me: "Look, I'll pay the difference...can we just get out of here?"
I hear chuckles behind me. I don't bother to look because I know I won't get any sympathy.

So what was the outcome of the whole ordeal? My mother saved 50cents! She left JoAnne's with her head held high while mine was bowed in abject humiliation.

I write about the whole incident with feeling because it is still branded on my soul. I know there are men out there who understand.

Now that I've alienated 90% of my feminine readers how can I build a bridge to them? By casting myself on their mercy and better natures: have pity on this wretched black sheep that has left the fold. Even though I only go to the mall once or twice a year it is still a marked improvement from my younger days.

Though I am not always in sync with sisterhood I take great joy that Jesus understands people like me...

"If you decide for God...it follows that you don't fuss about what's on the table at mealtimes or whether the clothes in your closet are in fashion. There is far more to your life than the food you put in your stomach, more to your outer appearance than the clothes you hang on your body. Look at the birds, free and unfettered, not tied down to a job description, careless in the care of God. And you count far more to him than birds. Has anyone by fussing in front of the mirror ever gotten taller by so much as an inch? All this time and money wasted on fashion (Amen! oops I'll try not to make anymore side comments!) do you think it makes that much difference? Instead of looking at the fashions, walk out into the fields and look at the wildflowers. They never primp or shop (Hallelujah! sorry, I did it again!) but have you ever seen color and design quite like it? The ten best-dressed men and women in the country look shabby alongside them." (Matt. 6: 25-29 The Message)

Monday, June 11, 2007

Stormy Weather

I love dramatic weather though I am not extreme enough to go hunting for tornadoes or anything. Thunder and lightning are right up my alley just as long as they don't hit my alley. I'll take stormy skies over blue any day.

Just when it seems that the heavens will rend and pour out a deluge, I've got camera in hand. I'm still hoping one day to capture a lightning strike but I regret that during my sojourn in Alaska I was not able to film aurora borealis.

Besides an occasional moose munching on twigs outside a bedroom window, Alaska did more to capture my heart than anything I could record with digital technology. Funny, I was born in The Land of the Rising Sun but left my heart in The Land of the Midnight Sun.

Another thing I regret is that I was not able to get close enough to photograph an eagle in flight. We have something in common; the eagle and I. We both love storms.

When other birds are seeking shelter, the eagle rejoices in the storm. It mounts on the fierce winds and flies above the storm. It is undeterred and uses the wind to its advantage. That's how I want to be.

One of my favorite scriptures brings this to mind.

"He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." Isaiah 40:29-31

Saturday, June 9, 2007

Yureka!

It had been a long demanding road: four years of hard effort and now I had it in my hand...I was a bona fide minister! Now everything would be easy for this starry-eyed dreamer. WRONG! My first step out into the great unknown was a flight from L.A. to St. Louis. We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Wait, scratch that...I was headed for Kansas...Topeka to be exact. Why, you may ask? Because a small church filled with wonderful Hmong people were part of the congregation and the pastors needed me to build a bridge to them.

I remember sitting down with the elderly pastor and his wife two months before. "You realize that I do not know their language or culture--I'm half-Japanese!" Nothing I said seemed to deter them or their preference. "We think you will be ideal; they will feel comfortable with you."

So here I was with willing heart and luggage in hand--leaving on a jet plane. When I settled in and began to mix with the tribal people from Laos, Blue Hmong to be exact, I had no difficulty with their culture, food, or fellowship. I had a blast!

My difficulty did not lie in ministry but in the fact that I was working in a small church that did not have sufficient means to support me. I had to find work fast. I applied to several businesses but nothing was available. After two weeks of fruitless attempts the only thing that opened for me was being a maid at a Ramada Inn. After a short struggle I swallowed my pride and took the job.

So where was this great minister that was going to take the world by storm? Four months after graduation I was on my knees cleaning a bathroom floor and weeping into the toilet. My complaints were flowing as fast as my tears. "God, why did you call me into ministry if this is where You wanted me?"

I reminded Him that I had already been cleaning out toilets when I volunteered my time at church, four years before my expensive education. I had just received two letters the week before from fellow classmates. One was on radio in Boston ministering to gang members while the other friend was teaching at a Christian school in Illinois.

It felt as if God was pouring salt into a wound. Where did I end up? Like Bill Cosby said so succinctly, "I put my face in a place where God never meant for me to put my face!" Weeping in a toilet. Yeah, right and I was going to change the world!

After the tears subsided somewhat I cried out, "Why, Lord? Just tell me why--I want to understand." Then clear as a bell I heard my own voice being played back as if it had been recorded. "When you are a servant of God then there is nothing too low for you; no task too menial. You are not your own anymore...you are bought with a price; your will is now swallowed up in the will of another."

Fine words, true words but only words. I had preached on servanthood just a few month before graduation. Now I understood: God was taking me at my words. Then this scripture came to my mind, "If any man will do His will he shall know of the doctrine whether it be of God or whether I speak of myself." (John 7:17).

Light illuminated my understanding: I wanted to know God's will before I did anything and Jesus was saying the exact opposite...you must do His will first and then understanding will come later. I would never learn about servanthood by preaching grand sermons--I had to do it: like feeding the hungry street people in SF late into the night or taking teens who had never been out of the city on a camping trip. In L.A. you can only see a handful of stars: these kids saw the Milky Way for the first time and spoke with awe of God's creation as they drifted off to sleep under the canopy of stars.

So what about crying into a toilet bowl? Well, after I understood what God was trying to do with my life my twisted sense of humor took over. I began to sing...and nobody sings well after they've been crying. What lofty song was lifted to the vaunted heavens? I'm sorry to report that it was not a worship song or hymn...I'm not that godly.

The song that came to me and that I sang out loud was from some musical. I don't remember which one but it went like this..."If they could see me now, that old gang of mine..." I couldn't remember the rest of the words but I sang the tune. I sang louder and I scrubbed the bowl harder and then I began to chuckle.

If anyone had witnessed my behavior they would have shipped me to the funny farm but here I am sound of body, limb and when it comes to my mind...only slightly off kilter.

Thursday, June 7, 2007

A Tightrope

Pleading brown eyes looked up into mine, "Teacher, she says it's only sparkles," Inayah said pointing to another girl during recess. "It's pixie dust...I know it!" she declared adamantly. I bent down to inspect the tiny vial of white sparkles on a chain around her neck, vying for time. God help me! I entreated silently.

What was I to do? Crush the beliefs of a starry-eyed six year old? I could be absolutely logical and destroy all the wonder God had put in her. For the life of me...I couldn't do it. She'll find out the truth one day, I thought to myself sadly, but I do not want to be the instrument to demolish her dreams.

"I can't tell," I finished lamely. "I don't know what it is." I watched her walk away with her head drooping down. I would not stoke the fire of her imagination either way.

I remember a few months before when she asked me point blank, "Teacher are fairies real?" Again the choice to respond was like walking a tightrope; would I fall on the side of reason or fancy?

I bent down and looked at her face to face, "Inayah, I have read wonderful stories about fairies. I have even written about two little girls having a tea party with fairies." I watched as her face brightened. "All kinds of worlds are real when you write them down. They have a life of their own."

"Maybe I'll write them too!" she said smiling with her dimples showing. "I think you will be a good writer because you have a wonderful imagination," I encouraged. For a while my answer seemed to satisfy her but now it seemed like I was at square one all over again.

She'll grow out of it, I mused but would she, or better yet...should she? What was the turning point for a young sixteen year old boy whose heart was becoming hardened by atheism? He picked up a book at a railway station called Phantastes and the fanciful tale changed his life. Who was he? C.S. Lewis and the author was a minister who still had a childlike wonder that was evident in all his stories, George McDonald.

I am fascinated that C.S. Lewis could write such great apologetic works like Mere Christianity and The Problem With Pain and also have authored the Chronicles of Narnia, The Great Divorce and The Screwtape Letters. The realist and the dreamer were melded into one consummate author. Why should there be a discrepancy between the two? Wasn't J.R.R. Tolkien of similar mold?

My heart cried out as the little girl skipped gaily back to class: dream on Inayah and I for one will join you!

Monday, June 4, 2007

A Thing of Beauty...

"Oh my God!" I yelled excitedly. "I can't believe my eyes!" Three women turned their heads and looked out the windows of my car to see what was so incredible. All they saw was sagebrush for we were in the middle of a desert. Where were we exactly? If I told you I would have to kill you. But let me put you at ease...it was not area 51.

I stopped the car and got out. "Hand me my camera, quick!" I said with urgency. There they were...two beautiful SR-71's; black, sleek, futuristic--gleaming in the sunshine. We were the only ones there to appreciate them.

"What is that?" My best friend's daughter said pointing. She asked the wrong question. Out of my mouth gushed all the praise I could lavish on such works of art. "It's called the Blackbird and travels three times the speed of sound. Pilots have to wear space suits just like astronauts. It's made out of titanium like the Space Shuttle..." Long before I was tired of speaking of them, my friends were tired of listening.

I tried to take pictures worthy of the aerodynamic wonder through the chain link fence but my attempts could not do them justice.

I had only read a few pages of Skunk Works but I remembered how the author said that while flying at night and looking at the round orb of the earth below (they can fly the same height as the Space Shuttle) he turned off all the lights in his cockpit and the luminosity of starlight was enough for him to read his panel.

I sighed deeply and mumbled to myself, "A thing of beauty is a joy forever!" Though I doubt very much whether the poet had something like this in mind when he penned the famous line.

"What did you say?" My friend asked. "Oh, it was just something Keats wrote long ago. I bit my lip and did not proceed further. It was pointless to explain. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder the old adage went. I could tell that when it came to supersonic jets like these I was alone in my assessment.

"Let's find someplace to eat!" another friend suggested. I smiled as I got back in the car...now here was something we could all agree on.

Sunday, June 3, 2007

Painting the Barn

I woke up this morning and assessed my situation. There was no denying the facts: it was as plain as the nose on my face. Down the corridors of my memory came advice so clairvoyant and clear like a clarion call. It was the only counsel my mentor and spiritual father, Rev. Paul Hackett, ventured to give the female segment of the student body.

There I was a young, eager, bright-eyed freshman looking up with veneration at a veteran minister with many campaigns; battle tested twenty years in the fierce jungle that made up Compton California.

"Ladies, please remember this..." he paused for effect. I, of course, was leaning forward in my seat with bated breath. What pearl of wisdom would he utter next, I wondered? In stentorian tones he somberly pronounced, "Do not paint the barn unless the barn needs painting!"

"Huh?" I said stupidly as I looked at him blankly. My neighbor, a sympathetic soul of sisterhood took pity on this tomboy and translated in a whisper, "He means don't wear make-up unless you need to!"

I nodded my head in acquiescences; I was only a a budding twenty-one year old. I had no intention of wearing make-up.

Adamantly through all the ensuing years I have been faithful to the vision. I only dabbed the war paint on if I had to attend a wedding or other special occasion. But alas, time moves forward and I am now over the hill. I momentarily brighten when I realized that when things go over a hill they pick up speed but the elation did not last long.

I looked in the mirror for a closer inspection. "Was this the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the towers of Ilium" I pondered? Definitely not! How about sunk a thousand ships, I thought ruefully. Christopher Marlowe did not have my face in mind when he wrote the epic poem of Homer's Helen.

I sighed heavily and began to apply the paint, I mean, make-up. The barn definitely needed painting. "It's not the years; it's the mileage!" a sage-like Harrison Ford said long ago...I quite agreed with him.

Then like a bell another truth came ringing. This is for all of you out there who like me keep pushing middle-age further and further back the more you age. As far as I'm concerned, middle-age is about 65 now. I remember the days when they said you couldn't trust anyone over 30!

"God does not see as man sees: for man looks upon the outward appearance, but God looks on the heart." (1 Sam. 16:7)

I am so grateful that He does because in my heart I'm still 21 years old.

Friday, June 1, 2007

THERE IS A LAND

There is a land that never ages,
unchanged it is between the pages;

fresh and alive from the first time we looked
into the heartbeat of Tolkien’s book.

We grow older, but not our hearts.
The wonder and magic never departs.

There is a cord that ties us there
untangled from all the world and its cares.

Unseen it may be, but it feeds our dreams,
more in common with our childhood it seems.

A fragrance is mixed from our infancy
adding strength to years that have yet to be…

binding us tighter to Middle-earth
feeding our hunger for greater worth.


A DIFFERENT AIR

I’ve been to many lands
from the pages of a book.
But nothing I’ve ever known
has the fragrance of Middle-earth.

I breathe a different air
whenever I go there.
It’s not something trapped in the lungs
but felt in the heart.

It is more than nostalgia
a longing to go home.
It’s hard to explain this desire.
Sometimes I feel all alone.


DON’T BE FOOLED

Don’t be fooled by appearances.
Things are often not what they seem.

A man who looks like an outcast
might really be a king.

A Hobbit cowering in fright
could cast down Mordor’s might.

An old man who seeks to rule
may turn out to be a fool.

A spirit that lusts for power
may crumble in its tower.

Not everything that seems weak is weak.
Not everything that looks strong is strong.


THE SONG

To ache for the music of Middle-earth:
To know the conductor who gave it birth…

to hear the song that’s inside of you
proving the symphony to be most true.

Rejoicing to know there are hearts in tune
to haunting melodies with Elvish runes.

He played the music that won our hearts.
It seeped into our souls like perfect art.

We assess it rightly to value it high.
In the masterpiece we heard his sigh.

The satisfaction that comes with delight
adds vision to sounds in lovely sight.

Hearing and seeing work hand in hand
to tie our hearts to that mysterious land.

The cords that wind around our hearts
give back the song our love imparts.

Our taste is fed by the tempo of light.
We sing of Middle-earth with all our might!


author's note: the conductor is not Howard Shore nor Peter Jackson but J.R.R. Tolkien