Here I sit

Staring forward I see a future. This future I see is uncertain, at best, jaded, at worst — a future that has my name written all over it. I wonder — often ponder — is this future in stone? Can some force, like a hurricane, change the course of my path? Can I, of my own ambition, or stupidity, grind my current future to a halt and then redirect it toward something else — better, worse, or just different? What principalities possess future-changing powers?

Of all the madness that fills each day, I cannot agonize over the details of things to come. Sure, there is always some nagging notion of “what if”, but I cannot allow that nagginess to curve my path. But wait?! What if that nagging IS my future? Could it be that — in some odd way — the voice that questions and re-questions, then questions my choices again is just a tool that encourages me along the way? Are the answers to the questions the steps that lead me on? Surely, there must be some guide that points me forward. Otherwise, I am left to wrestle with each decision, each choice, step after step, day after day, ad nauseam.

Yeah, well, such is life.

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Bored to someone else’s death

I understand constructing something. Building in order to create is a passion I share with millions of others. Whether it be something of brick and mortar or something with ones and zeros, the ability to fashion a finished… anything is an impressive goal.

Yet, there are yings to my yang — the bad people — those that deconstruct for the sake of destroying what others have worked to create. The deconstruction process — in and of itself — is not a bad thing, but the unrequested malicious destruction of what someone else has toiled to build is just plain mean. Let alone the time it took to construct, the shear disappointment of a project lost is heart wrenching.

These people (more like, animals) — what are they thinking? What courses through their veins that beckons them to target and destroy? What promises await them in the post-devastation? Who rewards them? Surely, there most be something motivating them beyond the simple notion to spite others. Surely.

All the same, I will rebuild. Taking refuge in the fact that I have more tolerance for foolishness than they have for wisdom.

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Reboot

Well, thanks to folks that sit around with nothing to do but doodle — oh, and ruin websites with malware — I am officially rebooting my website. But no fears — I saved my old posts and will be slowly getting them back up.

Thanks for reading.

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Not to be determined

Life is ever evolving, ever moving, ever fading — the ebb and flow. Here today — gone tomorrow. Like a vapor. Hold on, right? It’s fast, and furious, and ready to leave you standing naked and alone.

Makes you want to lay it out like a timeline, plot each major point, measure each benchmark, re-evaluate at each junction. The idea that you might miss it makes you want to be sure you don’t. If you blink, Lord forbid, it’s gone. Crap.

Take a breath. Truly, if you were to ask Jesus, He would tell you, “Yes, just a vapor, but don’t let that get you down.” Although it’s a passing fancy, every day means something — to you, to others, to the Lord. Everyday holds beauty and treasure, so much more than you could imagine. What you do with your life — a vapor it may be — weighs into the everlasting. Your life matters. You matter.

Carpe Diem is less “seize” the day, and more “pluck” the day. The idea is to grab hold of the day at the right time, paying less attention to what lies in the future — the uncertain and unknown tomorrow. “Enjoy” the day might be a better translation still. And a reminder that nothing you think you understand can be determined anyway. Go, live.

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For the love of God…

Why else do we do anything — anything at all? Seriously, if not for the Love of God, then for what?

This is a concept that my children lay hold of. They ask why people feel a need to do… well, anything, if they aren’t working toward something greater than themselves — the reference, concerning an individuals fundamental relationship with Christ. Even as children they understand that these are no random events, no whirling eddies, that comprise life’s daily dose of living. Even as children they see a Creator that has breathed purpose into an otherwise purposeless existence.

For the Love of God is the very reason I have the motivation to reach deep into my gift bag for forgiveness, and mercy, and faith, and hope, and love. His Love wakes my otherwise complacent and apathetic, often seemingly lifeless and meager, adventures. Without Him, without His Love, I walk in vain — and I am not one to do anything in vain. Therefore I embrace that Love.

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The option of failure

Let’s face it — we all fail. Say it with me, “We all fail.” Shame on your pride-stricken self if you didn’t say it — and it’s not about the “I’m a winner” mentally like you tell yourself. The fact that we fail means something important.

I actually heard a great line in a movie just the other day — “You learn from experiences, which are mostly bad choices.” We all make them — bad choices — and we all fall down and are forced to rise again. That doesn’t make you weak, it makes you human, it makes you real. The beauty in failing is in picking yourself back up again, dusting off the pride, and humbling yourself — that’s the “I’m a winner” talk you should be spouting. To learn from your poor choices and quick temper makes you more capable of being used by God. And to be used by Him makes you a winner.

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River of thoughts

Thinking is overrated. Maybe overrated is not the right word — how about tiring, although that says something altogether different. Yet, I tend to think about everything — literally, everything — in such detail, such tiring detail. It’s an OCD function, to be sure.

And with all these many thoughts flowing through my noggin, I am challenged to process and sort as to have some meaningful relationship with each one. Though truly, many a thought is unworthy of exorbitant attention, still I need to determine where priority lies in the realm of conscious consideration. I definitely don’t want to cheat a passing bliss, but neither do I desire to hang myself with an unworthy notion. It’s the point of processing that bogs the mind — it’s where the river bottlenecks and then overflows onto the banks of more meaningful living decisions.

Over the many wonderful years I have existed to date, I am becoming a master of thought. Like a”thought” Jedi, I can control the flow of information more easily, sorting, discarding, and logging for a later date. However, as I’ve grown older, the ability to store information for later retrieval has diminished. Now I face a deeper level of mental processing, beyond simply sorting into a category or two — I am now faced with mentally sub-categorizing. The act of taking a worthwhile thought and sticking it away for later use has become a dual-core function involving further processing and organizing. Woe is me.

So to conclude, I now accept (as I have for years) the fact that my computer-like brain, paired with my high attention to detail, tied to my chemically-screwed genetic structure will run at max RAM on all cores throughout my day. It’s neither a blessing nor a curse — it’s just the way God made me.

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Tackled by fear

When I was a kid in Georgia, just a tike, I’d ride the big yellow bus to school every day. And although I was a small kid, I was not one to put up with a bully — and there were many bullies. Now, I wouldn’t say I looked for trouble, but you can bet I didn’t back away from injustice either. Bigger kids on that bus often ran their mouths, putting down anyone outside their circle of friends, bad-mouthing the weaker, slandering their name, family, mommas, looks and so forth. I can’t remember if I was one of those targets, and it didn’t matter anyway, because a verbal assault on the weak meant an opportunity for me to stand up against the tyrant.

So there I was, in the back of the bus, running my mouth in the defense of someone weaker (or as weak as myself). I would manage, in all my childish wisdom, to become the new target. Suddenly, the threats started, and the bully would become 3-4 bullies ready to sock me good. I was scared. I hated bullies, I hated the fact that I was ever compelled to stick up for someone and now face the wrath of some bully’s poor upbringing. I was not upset that I had stood up for another kid, just that I was ever put into a predicament of such. Now my sense of justice was beginning to take the shape of fear, knowing good and well that size mattered, and I was on the losing end.

As the bus squeaked to a halt, I knew my small legs would only give me a few seconds lead — but what the heck, by some luck, I might actually run into a cop or something. So the door would open and I’d hit the ground like the 40-yard dash. And I’d run for all I was worth. And I’d muster all the remaining wisdom I had to high-tail it out of there. And I’d get about 20 yards — BAM! I was tackled by fear.

My own fear, I’d one day learn. It was my own fear that took me down, my own fear that dropped me. It was my own fear that I gave birth to in the back of that bus, then coddled and cooed, fed and supported. It was mine, and mine alone.

That fear has taken many shapes over my lifetime, always ready to knock me down. It stands and waits for me to speak out, make some life-changing decision, assert my creative gifting, and then leans in close to intimidate and scare me. It threatens me, warning that once the bus stops — watch out. It beckons me to run for my life. It hounds me to give up because I’m small and weak. It taunts me. It wants to tackle me.

As the years roll on, my physical size has increased, but my sense of injustice remains. I am no longer beaten down by bigger men, but rather feared by some instead. Not fear as through a physical assault, but rather fear through relational challenges. What is a bully to do when someone with wisdom, a voice, and physical stature stands against them? They learn quick that we are no longer riding in the back of a big yellow school bus.

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