Nutrition Facts, generic toaster pastry

All great deeds and all great thoughts have a ridiculous beginning. Great works are often born on a street corner or in a restaurant's revolving door. Albert Camus

This low-carb diet I attempt stinks. Lurking within one packet of snack crackers is my daily allotment of carbs. I could eat a wagon full of those packets, in one sitting. Don't even look at the amount in a toaster pastry (see above). The good news-pork rinds have NO carbs. I can eat the whole bag. But, I have to begin somewhere. So, I am working on a children's book. It doesn't have anything to do with carbs or pork rinds but it occupies my mind. The story is a retelling of an old story. Someone once told me, "If you want to find concise, understandable language, look in children's books." It is difficult to press truth into a small package. Maybe that's why some preachers talk so long. And, maybe that's why stories are so effective. Scripture says that Jesus didn't teach without telling a story (parable). So, I have the story. The illustrations are the next challenge. Watercolor is a favorite medium, but I am noodling around with mixed media/digital/chalkboard drawings. Hmm. No shortage of ideas.

Beauty

Anne Carter

"I believe in the end the world will be saved by beauty."

Fyodor Dostoevsky

"Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ also loved the church and gave himself up for her." Ephesians 5:25

On September 22, 1990, Anne Carter left the land of the dying and entered the Land of the Living. She is my mom. My dad tells me he thinks about her every day. '...and the two are united into one.' Genesis 2:24. The mystery of marriage, a picture of Christ and His bride, is to me the ultimate picture of beauty. Before mom became bedridden she would sit in the den and watch the world through the front windows. She loved flowers and trees, especially flowering Dogwoods. For a time she would start her day by looking at the dogwood sapling, planted before we knew she was sick. "I hope it blooms" she would say. I was doubtful. It was a sapling, too young to flower. I underestimated the power of love. One morning, there were flowers on mom's dogwood. My mom was elated. My dad helped her while, very slowly, she walked outside to see her tree. The cancer was draining her energy, and her vision. She never knew the flowers were silk, carefully and lovingly applied early that morning by my father's hand. He loved his bride. In that simple act my dad showed me an aspect of loving a wife as Christ loves the church. Thank you, Pop.

Friends

Tom and me, Big Hill Pond

"The more I think it over, the more I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people."

Vincent van Gogh

I've been walking in my room without walls, where the floor is earth and the ceiling is sky. Maxfield Parrish could paint skies but nobody rivals God's work. Last night I experienced a sunset over a used-car lot that would knock your eyes out. It was a gift. Like friends. And yet, friendship is a unique gift- a reciprocal gift, based on respect, trust and admiration. Often, friendships are based on something lacking in the one and possessed by the other, a place for want and plenty to meet. And then there is the element of maintenance. I have lost friends through neglect, by simply not paying attention. So for me, getting older means paying better attention.

Michael Card reminded a group of us teachers that there are levels of friends. Jesus had the 70, the 12 and the 3- Peter, James and John. Each level has its own dynamic and intimacy. One of my closest friends these days (and I hope 'these days' follow me to the graveyard) is Tom Sullivan, fellow educator and lover of the room without walls. I met Tom several years ago at a college in Memphis,TN. Tom was a Dean, I was an adjunct. I liked his laugh, and that he showed me where the coffee was hidden in the lounge. As time passed my family and I moved to the town of Bolivar, 65 miles away. Tom, and his beautiful wife Beverly, took me into their home the two nights a week I taught night classes. Words shared in the Sullivan den still come to mind. Now, Tom and I are separated geographically by 635.30 miles, according to Mapquest. Friendship is undaunted by geography.

On Gardening

"The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better."

Stephen King, On Writing

One day follows another. Sometimes, trying to find meaning is like a termite in a yo-yo...just when you get a grip, everything changes. I was staring at tomato plants in Wal-mart and a wave of sadness crashed into me. Now, the tomato plants were not at fault, they didn't insult me or throw anything. They were actually quite beautiful. I realised as I stood there that I would probably not have a garden this year. Being on my knees, my fingers in the dirt, just seems right.

Sometimes art is like gardening, you're not exactly certain of the final result. To paraphrase Dorothy Sayers, The Mind of the Maker, the creative process loosely applies to gardening- The Idea, the Image, the Interpretation. The idea begins in the mind of the maker, seeds. Next, the idea is realised in the image, a living thing(fleshed out as vegetables). Finally the image is interpreted, or in the case of garden vegetables, consumed. The result- many are blessed by the mind of the maker.

Neon Fish

Delight yourself also in the Lord, and He will give you the desires and secret petitions of your heart. Psalm 37:4

1974, senior year of high school, found me at a concert in Nashville, TN. The lineup was Gentle Giant, Black Oak Arkansas, and Black Sabbath. I was there to see Black Sabbath, but, I was curious about Black Oak. Gentle Giant was a pleasant surprise, especially the fellow on the electric fiddle. Black Oak was next, primo southern rock. The highlight was an acapella rendition of I Wish I Was In Dixie. A most excellent show! They left the stage and we waited for Black Sabbath. And waited, and waited... Finally, someone came to the microphone to announce that Ozzy was not feeling well and Black Oak was going to do another set. The crowd went wild! Black Oak had won the heart of the audience. I learned later that Ozzy had briefly 'disappeared'. Not long after that night I asked God if He would let me hear one of my songs on the radio. At that point in time I had never written a song.

So, twenty-something years passed. Tom Owen and I were driving around Memphis one night. We had just passed the fairgrounds on Parkway when Tom said, "We should open a coffee shop, a place families can come to, with an area for live music. We could put a giant icthus in neon on the outside wall and call it the Neon Fish." It was a catchy name. It seemed natural for a recording project we were working on together. We even played a couple of gigs. Literally, 2. My favorite was a Christian club called 704B on North Highland, Memphis, TN. There, in the basement of a church, I was on stage with some of the most amazing people I have had the privilege to know. On lead guitar was Greg Reding, formally of Black Oak Arkansas. The same Greg I saw on stage in Nashville, 1974. God is good. It gets better. We had given copies of the CD to a couple of radio stations. While driving around town one night, one of the songs from the CD began playing. A song I had written was being played on the radio, and that still, small voice said, "Do you remember the request you had in high school? Well, here it is."

Redemption

"A man has fallen into a pit. Do not speak to him of the good life. Throw him a rope. But when he has climbed out of the pit, and you discover that he is not happy, speak to him of the good life."

Leon Wieseltier

When I was a kid my mom saved Top Value stamps, not S&H Green stamps. They came, for the most part, from the gas station. My dad owned a tombstone company (still does), so he had a big truck. It had 2 gas tanks. I was fascinated with that. When one tank emptied you flipped a switch to change tanks (I always wondered why our car didn't have that feature). Whenever he filled both tanks there was a pile of stamps. Once, I thought I would help mom out, so I started sticking stamps in books. I didn't know some stamps carried more value than others, so I filled every square. Mom was a little miffed, which was pretty rare for her. My favorite 'stamp' days were on the visits to the redemption store. The store had a toy section. Sometimes my mom had extra stamps. Those were good days. Once we had enough stamps to purchase a model airplane kit. The best part- all the pieces were interchangeable. Three set of wings, three tail fins, three fuselages... possibilities were a mathematical delight. The power of redemption.

The Stirring, Teresa Carter

"Israel believed that the prophetic word pronounced, which came from God, was an event, a three-dimensional event, and not merely indifferent sounds issuing from the throat. Such an event set other events in motion, moving in a way they would not have moved without that word."

Jeremy Driscoll, A Monk's Alphabet

Artist's are an odd lot. I know because my wife and I are both artists. It's okay to be odd, sometimes. Besides, I don't want to be like everyone else. Here's a thought I've been chewing on for some years now- artists are bridges between the classes, drinking beer with a house framer one moment and having wine with a bank VP in an art gallery the next. Michelangelo is a good example. Of course, with this privilege comes responsibilty.

The language of art...a picture is worth a thousand words. Imagine the vocabulary required of the Louvre. So, here's another thought- if prophetic words set events in motion, what about prophetic art? What happens when a prophetic utterance occurs on canvas? Every generation is filled with those who impact culture with their words, music, paintings, sculpture. Those working within their time speak to their time. The prophetic transcends time.

"Creation is the language of God, time is His song, and things of space the consonants in the song. To sanctify time is to sing the vowels in unison with Him. This is the task of men, to conquer space and sanctify time." Abraham Joshua Heschel

Debunking Labels

Father Boniface, OSB

Father Stephen

"And there's a loyalty that's deeper Than mere sentiments

And a music higher than the songs That I can sing

The stuff of Earth competes For the allegiance I owe only to the Giver Of all good things

So if I stand let me stand on the promise That you will pull me through

And if I can't, let me fall on the grace That first brought me to You

And if I sing let me sing for the joy That has born in me these songs

And if I weep let it be as a man Who is longing for his home"

Rich Mullins, If I Stand

Labels. We all use them. We look for them. They help us make associations, a way to categorize. Especially when it comes to religion. I don't know how many times I have heard the question, "What are you? A Baptist? A Presbyterian?" I grew up in a Southern Baptist home. After graduate school I became involved with a non-denominational church, moving later to an Evangelical Presbyterian church. Now, my family and I attend...well, it doesn't matter because being called a Baptist or Presbyterian bothers me. I prefer Christian.

"Yes, but" you may ask, "what kind of Christian?"

"Well", I would have to say, "some days, not a very good one."

Because I was reared in a specific denomination, certain 'other' branches of the vine were viewed suspiciously. And, each branch has its own issues. Like the old joke-

Q: Why do Southern Baptists think premarital sex is wrong?

A: Because it leads to dancing!

Over the years some of my labels have been debunked. My brother-in-law is a Roman Catholic priest. He, along with his friends, have destroyed any preconceived notions I may have believed Catholics to be. In fact, he is one of the best examples of 'Christian' I have seen. He prays for people, on the spot. His generosity astounds me. Whenever we talk he tells me, "I pray for you every day." One day he introduced me to Brother Elijah, a Benedictine monk. I had never met a monk before. Being from Tennessee, I thought monks lived cloistered lives, praying and chanting 20 hours a day (and were all old!). Brother Elijah is young, charismatic, and has written a musical for stage that sounds like Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Then, Brother Elijah introduced me to Father Boniface, who, upon asking me for my phone number pulled an iPhone out of his robe. He is involved with information technology at the monastery.

I am leaving for church in a few moments. Maybe a few labels will be debunked.

Poiema

It is reported that St. Francis of Assisi once asked God to allow him to hear the music of heaven. The Lord told Francis he knew not what he asked, for the sheer glory of heaven's song would spell certain death. The persistent saint pleaded eagerly, "Can't I hear just one note?" God conceded. As the story goes, Francis awoke from his coma a few days later.

Christopher West, Heaven's Song

In November of 1994, Michael Card released Poiema, an album that is, to this day, one of my favorites. I am listening to it now as I type. The Irish flavour, complete with traditional instruments, captivates me. The marriage of lyric and melody is amazing. Music speaks to the soul and Michael's music continues to encourage and inspire me. He once asked me if I had ever considered painting the Hebrew word chesed. I had already been pondering the expression and seen imagery- the notion of everlasting mercy, the kindness of God. Unfortunately there exists a discrepancy between my imagination and my reality- between what I can 'see' in my minds-eye and the technical ability that limits what my hand can paint. Kathryn Manzo, a painter/teacher extraordinaire (one of my wife's instructors) once told a roomful of painters, "Do not be defined by your limitations and you will exceed your expectations!" So, reconciliation usually occurs and I paint what I can. But there have only been a few times when I was completely satisfied when the paint dried. I took Michael's question as a challenge. A few years have passed.

In 1749, Johann Sebastian Bach completed a missa tota that would come to be known as Mass in B minor. Christoph Wolff said that Bach considered the Mass as "the supreme opportunity to unite his creed as a Christian with his creed as a musician in a single statement." It is believed he never heard it performed in its entirety. John Hodges once told a roomful of teachers, a group I was blessed to be a part of, "everyone should own a copy."

I have several titles- husband, father, son... each depends on who is addressing me. One of my favorite titles is Poiema- one of God's poems, his workmanship.

We are living letters that doubt desecrates

we're the notes of the song of the chorus of faith

God shapes every second of our little lives

and minds every minute as the universe waits by.

Michael Card, Poiema

Brains vs Minds

My Brain on Caffeine

"Well, how can you talk if you haven't got a brain?" she asked.

"I don't know. But some people without brains do an awful lot of talking." he replied.

excerpt from a conversation between a man of straw and a runaway from Kansas

I once had a Japanese student who was actually from Japan. His father, a fisherman in a small village, had saved enough money for his son to attend an American university. This student was one of the most attentive I have had the privilege to teach. He often stayed after class to ask questions, he would stop me in the library to speak further. If he saw me walking across campus or having coffee in the student center he would make a point to speak to me. He took copious notes, in Japanese. His English was broken, usually aided by a handheld electronic translator. But not everything is translatable. Try explaining the expression 'tongue in cheek' to someone from another culture and language. I even used hand signals and facial expressions, to no avail. (Thank goodness I didn't use the Southern colloquialism 'boogered up'). He was extremely intelligent, and determined to learn, in spite of communication issues. I think he wanted to make his father proud.

Last year I participated in a clinical study conducted by Wake Forest. The researchers were looking for the effects of caffeine on the brain. I drink coffee. Alot. So, I was a good candidate. During the study my brain was scanned 4 times, twice fully loaded with coffee, twice deprived (72 hour caffeine fast prior to scan). My body does not like being deprived of coffee. So, the doctors have images of my brain but none of my mind. It is still being renewed.

Back To School

"The line between reality is my door."
John Baldessari

Back to school... the words bring new crayons to my mind, the big box with the built-in sharpener. There is something beautiful about a new box of crayons. Perfectly flat tops. Pristine paper labels. That 'waxy' smell when you first open the box. The creative possibilities of pigment and paraffin are enormous. Of course, Crayola makes the best. No other crayon even comes close. Ask any kid.

The past couple of years have been like going back to school, with every day being the first. That's how it is in the life we call walking with God. His school is filled with surprises, excitement, drama, tension. His creative possibilities are new and fresh. He is a good teacher. And, He doesn't mind repeating a lesson until I get it. (His patience astounds me). Recently I've had a couple of 'aha' moments, the moment in time when the light bulb comes on and I get it. Here's one of my aha's- God has entrusted all of us with precious gifts called time and imagination. I want to be a good steward, of both. I'm working on it. Yesterday I walked to WalMart and bought a box of crayons.

Paradise Lost

"Words are sacred. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones, in the right order, you can nudge the world a little."

Tom Stoppard

'Jesus Loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so...'

From the novel Say and Seal, Susan Warner, 1860

So, I wanted to find a reader's copy of Paradise Lost (hardcover that I could write in)...what better source than eBay. Eureka! I found a copy published by International Collector's Library, 1969. Mine was the winning bid, actually, the only bid. For $3.50 I purchased a mint, hardcover copy that contains not only Paradise Lost, but also Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes. It doesn't appear to have ever been opened. John Milton and I share the same birthday, well, a few years apart. He recently celebrated his 400th birthday party. I wonder if, as he penned Paradise Lost, he foresaw the impact his words would have? But then, I wonder if any of us consider the impact of our words?
Yesterday I was in line at WalMart. There are interesting people at WalMart. Opportunities for conversation abound there. I began a conversation with the man in front of me.
"That's alot of stuffed sausage!" I commented (probably 30 packages).
"Yes, but I'm not going to eat them all. In fact, come by at noon and you can help me eat them."
I thought about him the rest of the day. He was filled with joy. I wonder what he thinks of Paradise Lost?

Age of Wonder

We live in an age of Wonder. With a small device known as the iPod, I can listen to a lecture by Calvin Seerveld or music by Michael Card, while walking around a lake.
But, as fascinating as that may seem, nothing beats a good conversation. This weekend I had a good conversation with my son. We camped, we fished (well, we cast rubber worms into the lake), we ate...alot. Two teenage guys can put some food away. I let the boys plan the menu:
Breakfast
Eggs, Toast, Bacon (thick), Doughnuts, Orange Juice, Coffee
Lunch
Hot Dogs, Chips, Trail Mix, Salsa, Mountain Dew
Dinner
Steak (Marinated 24 Hours), Stuffed Baked Potatoes, Salad, Crusty Bread
and, of course, snack stuff.

After many words, and some laughter, I realised that moments like we were enjoying don't happen often enough. I realised my youngest son is not a little boy any longer. I realised the generational gap between us doesn't have to come between us. And, as I listened to my son share his thoughts, I remembered being a teenager.
Relationships are fragile. I have seen a few broken, some of which are credited to my account. Regret is a terrible companion. As the days speed by I am trying to work on the relationships I have left. In order to do that, I need to learn how to be a better listener.

Looking

"People ask me, How do you write a song? I tell them, It's kinda like fishing. It's mostly about being there, and, if you have a pencil when one swims by you can catch it." Arlo Guthrie



Today I looked for fishing poles. It took me awhile to find them. And then, I wondered, "How much time do I spend looking for things?" I have a trip planned for Sam (my son), Zach (a friend) and I to go fishing this weekend. But the trip is about more than fishing. Sam is soon to be 15, Zach is 18. The trip is about conversation (fishing lends itself to conversation). The conversation? Sexual purity. I Know, a heavy topic. But I feel compelled. It is time to continue the conversation I began some time ago with my son. I have asked 24 men of God, men of prayer, to stand with me in prayer that the conversation this weekend would glorify God.



As I have reflected on this issue I realized that men (myself included) are looking for something. We are looking for the real. We are looking for God. Not the god of this world but God, the I Am. And, I realized He wants to be found. So, I am going fishing with my son. I believe God will be there. The prayers of 24 men will be there.

On Being

"Just because something is technically legal doesn't mean that it's spiritually appropriate. If I went around doing whatever I thought I could get by with, I'd be a slave to my whims." from a letter to a church in Corinth, 1st century AD, The Message.

Saturday I went hiking with my son, Sam, and his youth group. Actually, they allowed me to drag along. Brian, the youth leader, told me it was a twenty-minute hike to the top of Crowder's Mountain. He didn't tell me it was straight up. I thought I was going to die. No one else even seemed winded. Two minutes into the hike I realised I am pathetically out of shape. By the time we reached the top I had made several vows, among which included a change of diet and exercise. Two days later, while still sore, I haven't changed my mind.

In my Senior year of High School I ran two miles daily. I weighed 145 lbs. That was 35 years ago. Now my weight is, well, more than 145. I can't run 100 yards without some problems. This, of course, didn't happen overnight. While taking spiritual inventory this morning, I was looking over my notes from Robin McMillan's sermon yesterday. Reflecting on Paul's words regarding our bodies, my gaze stopped at this quote from Robin- "The hidden things affect the visible things." Things we do in secret will eventually become known. The spiritual affects the physical. Because change is gradual, at times even imperceptible, we're usually not aware of problem issues until they are a problem. Habits form over time. While some habits are bad, some are good. Last week my wife and I began taking Communion together, daily. The result has been amazing.

So today begins a new start. Hopefully a few good habits will follow. I have another hike planned with my son next weekend.

Mean Teachers

"Do not try to satisfy your vanity by teaching a great many things. Awaken people's curiosity. It is enough to open minds, do not overload them. Put there just a spark. If there is some good inflammable stuff, it will catch fire."

Anatole France



My perspective of education has changed. High school classrooms looked different through sixteen-year-old eyes than through fifty-year-old eyes. My view of teachers has also changed. The Living Bible says this, "A wise teacher makes learning a joy!" Proverbs 15:2. I don't recall any of my high school teachers making anything a joy. School was to be endured, not enjoyed (I am quite certain the opinion I held of my teachers was reciprocal). But then, there was Mr. Davis, 9th grade math teacher. Everyday, Mr. Davis wore a short-sleeved, white shirt with the sleeves rolled. I've never understood why people roll short-sleeves. There were always several pens in his pocket and always a King James Bible on his desk. I never saw him pick it up. He never made reference to it. But, like a silent sentry of truth, it was always there. He is one of the few teachers I remember.



In my Senior year of high school I made this vow- 'If I ever graduate (and there were 'iffy' moments) I will never set foot in a school again!' I can now imagine a band of angels looking curiously at the Lord, wondering about the smile my vow brought to His face. For reasons known but to Him, after high school I enrolled in college. It was there that God called me to teach. Years later I found myself teaching high school students at Overton High, Memphis, Tennessee. It didn't take long to know that the view from the teacher's desk is radically different than the view from the student's. Suddenly, all those 'mean' teachers from my youth became human. I knew something would have to happen beyond my abilities, something would be required of me. And then I remembered Mr. Davis.

Two weeks into the school year it happened.
"Today," I announced to a class of 35 high school art students,"I want you to illustrate the concept of LOVE, without using words."
Silence. No movement. Finally, in the back of the room, a small girl raised her hand.
"What if you don't know what love is?" she asked.
I picked up the Bible from my desk and read I Corinthians, chapter 13. I placed the Bible back on my desk. The atmosphere in the room changed. That week I began to write Scripture on the blackboard, a new verse every week. By Christmas I noticed students copying the verses in their notebooks. The Word of God seen and heard in a public school classroom. Teachers began stopping by to read the verse of the week. One asked, "Can you do that?" I explained the Supreme Court ruling regarding sacred literature in government schools- 'you may expose but not expound.' Read, show- don't comment! I wonder what would happen if more preachers followed this rule.