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A couple of weeks ago, a few days after Hannah’s 15th birthday, I knocked on her bedroom door late in the evening to say goodnight. Upon entering, I discovered Hannah in an awkward moment: she was lying in Katie’s bed, i.e. the bottom bunk, with the blankets pulled up over her knees, with a King James Version of the Bible propped against them, opened to the book of Lamentations.
Awkward.
“Hannah, what are you reading? The Bible? The King James Version? What book are you reading? Lamentations? Why?”
You can imagine my dismay.
Now, of course, some of you parents immediately begin to think that I’m offering this anecdote as another version of parenting arrogance, indicating how my kid is better than your kid – a teenager reading the holy scriptures without coercion, and all that.
However, you shouldn’t have to consider that scenario for long before realizing that, since my daughter was reading an obscure and fairly whiny and depressing book from a challenging translation of the Old Testament, this isn’t really bragging material, especially considering I was surprised to find her reading the Bible at all.
The truth is that we don’t really push our kids to read the Bible. I’m not saying that’s good – or bad, for that matter – but that’s the truth. We do read the Bible with them and around them, but we don’t really ask or expect them to read it. Funny thing is, at least occasionally, we “catch” them reading the Bible. I attribute that to one of the following issues: a) that crazy church we attend and all of its influences, b) their crazy grandparents, or c) that crazy God.
Of course, we also catch them playing video games, scamming ways to get more candy, watching dumb TV shows, reading comic books, and fighting with each other, and I attribute these issues to their mother.
After talking with Hannah for a few minutes that evening, though, my “concerns” were relieved, relatively speaking, and we had a decent conversation about a couple of verses from Lamentations. Hannah’s actually writing a song that includes some of these lines in the lyrics.
I’ve decide I like that. I’m not sure I understand it, but I’m not certain I understand Lamentations anyway, and especially after it is translated through a 15-year-old mind, but I like it.
Turns out, there is something quite meaningful and beautiful in the sadness of Jeremiah’s words from that traumatic period in Hebrew history, especially after it’s translated through a 15-year-old mind. And that kind of beauty, I figure, is worth sharing even if it could be conceived as parental arrogance.
Truthfully, I love Hannah’s poetic, musical, somewhat melancholy, satirical approach to life. Furthermore, I love that Hannah considers the Bible as a reasonable source of material. Furthermore, I love Hannah.
These are verses that hit home for her, and on further consideration, I’ve discovered they speak volumes to me. From now on, they’ll always be favorites of mine:
Arise, cry out in the night: in the beginning of the watches pour out thine heart like water before the face of the Lord: lift up thy hands toward him for the life of thy young children, that faint for hunger in the top of every street. (Chapter 2, verse 19)
…for thy breach is great like the sea: who can heal thee? (Chapter 2, verse 13)
Renee says my recent posts have given her friends headaches, and that I need to lighten up a bit and write something funny again.
So, I did what every good writer would do: I googled “best jokes”. Then, I scrolled down past about 47 pages of adult/dirty jokes until I came to the family jokes section.
Here’s what I got: (Be sure to LOL, and let Renee know that my post brightened your day.)
A woman gets on a bus with her baby. The bus driver says: “That’s the ugliest baby that I’ve ever seen. Ugh!” The woman goes to the rear of the bus and sits down, fuming. She says to a man next to her: “The driver just insulted me!”
The man says: “You go right up there and tell him off – go ahead, I’ll hold your monkey for you.”
(Sorry, but credit to the joke site is not provided because seeing all of those other jokes might give you a headache again.)
(Note: I had a conversation early this morning with a friend who, obviously, is not managing her time well, given that by 6am she had already prepared for the day, and read the “adeste fidelis” blog post I had published only a few hours earlier.
I prefer to give myself a chance to see my blog post in the light of day, after a normally late-night writing session, before I’m prepared to discuss it, since I may want to publish a retraction or correction or apology before it gets much exposure.
That was not possible this morning. We discussed the post, and I related my inability to put a fine point on my gut regarding those thoughts. In my late night stupor, I couldn’t get the words to say what I felt, so I deleted a few sentences and toyed with it before giving up.
So, I was reprimanded this morning, rightly so, for not being willing to risk the expression of things that could be ill-perceived if not written carefully, when I didn’t have the energy or acuity to write carefully.
Anyway, reprimand duly received, and encouragement noted, I am issuing this addendum to the previous post without further ado.)
If Jesus is true - not whether he exists or existed, but if he is all of what he is supposed to be; that is, if the full weight of the truth of him and what it means about us and this world we live in is true; if the implications of the existence of such a man and such a God upon our world are fully considered; if Jesus is The Truth – then we ought to live in way that reflects such a reality.
Perhaps, on good days, in mystical moments, we do. Perhaps subconsciously, inherently, in simple things and practical ways, we do reflect that truth. Perhaps, as I suspect he does, Jesus slips, frequently uninvited and mostly unobserved, into our minutes and thoughts. I certainly hope he is involved much more than I’ve recognized.
But the probability that I haven’t recognized it is what concerns me. Maybe I just can’t recognize it – maybe it’s not possible for my humanity to be aware of such things - and if so, that’s a relief because it gives me an out, not an excuse for not peforming, but a comfort that I’m not missing him. But what if it is possible to recognize, and enjoy, and glean from his every intrusion, and I haven’t done so? What then? What precious parts of life have I missed?
I don’t want to miss an opportunity to interact with him here. Those moments are far too rare and precious to endure the thought that I’ve not made the most of them.
And that’s what I hear in my soul in response to Buechner and his call to “adeste fidelis” – to come and see, all ye faithful. I hear myself saying, “Yes, I will come and try him; to take advantage of his beckoning of me, and the offer it presents to know him.”
I will come and see, because if he is true, and I believe he is even in ways we’ve never considered, then I ought to live in the light of that truth, or at least I ought to want to live in the light of that truth, simply because it is the fullness of life, the abundant life, the transcendent life, a life in Christ. If he is true, and such a life is available, it is worth far more than whatever it costs.
I often find a lingering doubt in my soul as to whether or not I’ve really given Jesus a fair shake. I think that thread of doubt is easily discovered in what I write. It’s not a doubt, however, as to whether or not Jesus is real or powerful or meaningful.
Although such doubts appear in my mental meanderings occasionally, I seldom give them voice because they don’t carry enough weight in comparison to my more persistent doubts; that is, whether I’ve truly embraced the reality, power or meaning of Jesus - whether I’ve given him a fair shake as far as living in the light of those truths.
So, as I’m prone to do, I find myself reading something from Buechner that stirs me to that challenge once again. Tonight, I thought I’d share that with you because Buechner says it better than I.
I’m guessing, though, that if you’re like me, you don’t like to read long quotes from some other writer included in something written by a friend or favored author. I tend to check out when those quotes show up, thinking, “if I wanted to read Buechner, I wouldn’t have come to this blog,” or some such tripe.
Come on. Just once, give Buechner a fair shake. Maybe, in some small way, it will set you on the road to give Jesus a fair shake. Come all ye faithful.
The following is an excerpt from Frederick Buechner’s essay titled Come and See, included in the collection “The Hungering Dark”.
So what is left to us then is the greatest question of them all. How do we know whether or not this truth is true? How do we find out for ourselves whether in this child born so long ago there really is the power to give us a new kind of life in which both suffering and joy are immeasurably deepened, a new kind of life in which little by little we begin to be able to love even our friends, at moments maybe even our enemies, maybe at last even ourselves, even God?
Adeste fidelis. That is the only answer that I know for people who want to find out whether or not this is true. Come all ye faithful, and all ye who would like to be faithful if only you could, all ye who walk in darkness and hunger for light. Have faith enough, hope enough, despair enough, foolishness enough, to at least draw near to see for yourselves.
He says to ask and it will be given you, to seek and you will find. In other words, he says that if you pray for him, he will come to you, and as fas as I know, there is only one way to find out whether that is true, and that is to try it. Pray for him and see if he comes, in ways that only you will recognize. He says to follow him, to walk as he did into the world’s darkness, to throw yourself away as he threw himself away for love of the dark world. And he says that if you follow him, you will end up on some kind of cross but that beyond your cross and even on your cross you will also find your heart’s desire, the peace that passes all understanding. And again, as far as I know there is only one way to find out whether that is true, and that is to try it. Follow him and see. And if the going gets tough, you can always back out. Maybe you can always back out.
Doesn’t that make you want to leap over tall buildings in a single bound? Doesn’t that make you want to follow him, really follow him, and see?
Last Saturday morning, as we drove eastward along Colorado Highway 14 through the Pawnee National Grasslands in northeastern Colorado in the family bus, the thought struck me that, in spite of the intrusion of humanity into every remote area of our shrinking world, there remain vast spaces of unexplored territory.
I’ve entertained such thoughts before, while hiking in remote, off-the-trail areas of the Rocky Mountains, for example, but this reality was especially poignant on Saturday with the grasses of the Great Plains waving at me for attention as I passed them at 70 miles per hour.
They say (whoever they are) that over a lifetime, human brains develop ruts along neural pathways; that our thoughts actually follow the same worn courses through our brains after many years of repetitively processing repetitive ideas, biases, routines, and cravings.
Rural, less-traveled paths through our brains sit lazily by with little electrical stimulation as the years pass. We find our comfort zones and we stick with them. We find our neural super-highways and wear them out. We find our favorite pair of socks and wear holes in them while newer, less-appealing, slightly more abrasive pairs sit idle in the sock drawer.
Parts of our minds, our lives, our potentialities seldom see traffic other than the minimally-sustaining required bloodflow.
Highway 14 is a relatively quiet road, but it supports steady traffic. Going half a mile to the north or south of that pavement will put you in entirely unexplored spaces.
In my odd little, rutted mind, I think about a square foot of grassland out there in that space and imagine a world within a world. Tiny critters roaming freely, almost invisible and leaving no footprints, across terrain made of microscopic boulders, a.k.a. sand, and newly sprouted grass seedlings venture out among ancient stalks, vying for sunshine while stretching their roots to find anchor against the relentless winds.
That little space has a story to be told, but it has no voice, and few happy explorers, being so far from the beaten path.
The people in my old hometown of Sedgwick, with a population smaller than a two-block area in my Greeley neighborhood, are like that little space – a world within a world, off the beaten path.
Interstate 76 was built two miles south of Sedgwick, usurping the elder authority of Highway 138 which goes right through town, and the 80-miles-per-hour traffic along that corridor can only see, even with great effort, a clump of trees and an old-fashioned water tower as signs of civilization off the exit ramp.
I spent six years in Sedgwick – middle and high school years – and I’ve been back to visit several times, and even with that investment I’ve found I know very little – I’ve explored only a small portion of the surface of that community.
Of course, they’re private and proud people, silently going about their deeply-connected lives, seldom venturing out of their own ruts.
I think we take the superficial signals put off by people, signals of sufficiency and capability, strength and privacy, as insurmountable obstacles to exploration. I think people put off those signals as some sort of sick defense mechanism to hide their desperation.
I think the unexplored grassy spaces along Highway 14 have waved in such desperation for so long they’ve developed a harsh appearance as a polite, but uninviting, facade to prevent further disappointment. “No, no, we’re fine. You go right ahead. It’s a beautiful day isn’t it? Well, you must be getting on now. Have a good day! We’ll see you as you pass by on the way back. Goodbye now.”
What we presume is unapproachable is the presentation of a learned response to disappointment. Furthermore, our presumption is our own defense against the discomfort of engaging in the inconvenience of exploration.
The truth we all know is that a small investment of our time, unfeigned compassion, and genuine curiosity, easily break down all of those defenses. The truth is that there is no greater tragedy than the unexplored, seldom-acknowledged, under-valued, unloved depths of the human soul.
They also say, whoever they are, that the neural pathways can be modified. With some effort – some intentional exercising of the brain – new pathways can be developed.
We can change our minds.
You can take your foot off the gas, apply the brake gradually, slowly. Turn left onto the dirt road into the wide-open spaces. Pull your vehicle to the side of the road, open the door and step out. Walk a few paces off the beaten path into unexplored spaces. Kneel down there. Look real close. Poke around a bit with your finger. Sharpen your gaze and study that world. Listen carefully.
Hear that? That’s the cry.
Maybe you could stay a while?
Hannah got a new t-shirt yesterday.
Flying north on Weld County Road 77 in our bus yesterday afternoon, with six of my children in tow, most of whom were fast asleep in spite of the sound of Five Iron Frenzy’s horns and screaming vocals bouncing between the windows, I missed the small road-side sign indicating Grover was six miles to the east.
Of course, I wasn’t really planning to go to Grover, even though it’s a fond rest-stop for a Saturday afternoon road-trip. We’ve found ourselves there a few times, and intentionally at least twice.
I knew I was in the neighborhood, but it wasn’t until I passed the sign, that it seemed like the right spot for a break. I asked Hannah, “you want to go to Grover?” She responded with a “sure” that carried more uncertainty than the word is supposed to convey.
I braked quickly and pulled into the dirt on the side of the narrow, paved road with no shoulder. Making a u-turn in a church bus is never convenient, especially on a narrow country road, but we didn’t exactly have to stop traffic – the only other vehicle in sight was also headed to Grover.
The market and cafe in Grover is the only business open on Saturday afternoon, and the cafe’s side of the room had actually closed an hour before we arrived. We covered the bottom of a 30-year-old shopping cart with candy, chips, drinks, and one small t-shirt and checked out without waiting in line.
Even at a small, the t-shirt is too big for Hannah, and too cheesy to be appealing, but it made her laugh. I’m always a sucker for buying Hannah the things that make her laugh.
The screen-print on the shirt pictures a car traveling a lonely stretch of country road with a giant road sign to the right that says:
- The End Of The World 9 miles
- Grover, CO 12 miles
You have to work hard to stay in Grover for more than a few minutes, especially on a cold and windy day. We weren’t in the mood for hard work, so we packed back in the bus with our stash and moved on.
If Grover is, in fact, 3 miles beyond the end of the world, it turns out there’s a whole bunch more than just Grover out there. We drove north another hour or so, soaking up the sites through Hereford, Colorado, past Interstate 80, then Carpenter, and Burns, Wyoming and kept going into the great unkown until we intersected with US Hwy 85 again.
Then we turned south and headed for Cheyenne and, eventually, Greeley.
A road trip to nowhere in particular, and particularly a road trip to no place of consequence, is always good for the soul.
Old farm buildings, faded and tattered, and blown to a slant by the relentless wind of the plains, a growing crop of lazily spinning windmills, a herd of antelope enjoying a hilltop view, a sunset that stretches a bazillion miles with the folly of extravagant colors to which no one is really paying attention, thousands of geese flying into the sunset in their awkward, undulating v-formations, and mile after mile of rolling hills, buttes and ravines covered in dry, brown, knee-high grass determined to stand strong against the daily onslaught of good reasons to give up.
These are the things we found yesterday beyond the end of the world. If you’ve never been there, if you’ve never had the heart to venture beyond that boundary on a lazy Saturday afternoon or otherwise, you might not believe me. You might think this is a fictional account, born in the madness of a jungle of children in the wee hours.
But Hannah has the t-shirt to prove it.
Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Probably won’t resist the urge to do it again.
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