Overcoming

Commit to the Lord whatever you do,
and all your plans will be established.
--Proverbs 16:3

This past weekend we had a guest speaker in church, Russ King from Nashville. Sunday morning he talked about the journey from victim, to survivor, to overcomer. To extremely condense a very rich sermon, the victim is still living in the tragedy, expecting special treatment and/or sympathy. "I'm one of the Hurricane Katrina victims." The survivor no longer expects to be treated special, but still defines him/herself by the tragedy, maybe even takes pride in it: "I'm a hurricane Katrina survivor." The overcomer has incorporated the experience, learned from it, and moved beyond it, thinking of it as an experience, not a tragedy, and refusing to be defined by it. "Oh, why yes, I did live through Huricane Katrina. It was quite an experience..."

Moving from one phase to another is not an entirely natural process: It takes effort, courage, and faith. It is very much like the process of forgiveness: If you still define the person--and your relationship with them--by what he did to you, you have not fully forgiven.

Glued on the dashboard of my truck is a little purple metal plaque with Proverbs 16:3, given to me a very long time ago by a very special person with whom I was parting ways. When I glance at that plaque, as I have just about every day for the past thirteen or so years, I do not think of the person who gave it to me, nor of the exquisite pain of our parting. I think of the God who has established my ways, through that and many other good and bad times.

When all the distractions go away, that really is how I define myself: Not by the triumphs I have savored or the tragedies I have survived, but by the God who is teaching me to overcome both.

Thank you for bringing me this far, Father.

Free Advice

Don't stack your firewood pile up to the rafters on the side of your shed.

Why, you ask?

OK, I'll tell you why: When one of those ridiculously wet, heavy fall snows occurs, the snow will have nowhere to slide off the roof of your shed. And when a thousand pounds or so of wet, heavy snow has no way to go other than down, that's the way it will go, roof or no roof.

Much to the detriment of your shed.

That's why.

Kipling on Common Sense

The following poem was brought to mind by the current financial mess (not to mention the current presidential election). We really never learn, do we?

The Gods of the Copybook Headings by Rudyard Kipling

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place;
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four—
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man—
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will bum,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Aspen Camping

I got home yesterday and was delighted to find that Sarah had the truck all packed up and ready to go camping! YES! We drove up the Loop Road, and down into what I think is Lower Townsend Creek. God really pulls out all the stops this time of year when it comes to decorating. Rather than make some sad effort to describe it, I'll just save several thousand words and let the pictures do the talking.

Making the Scene

Morning!

The Woods Tea Company, from Vermont, is my favorite folk band, pulling off sea chanties, Irish tunes, and random goofiness with equal panache. They have had a rough couple years with the loss of two of their band mates, but they continue to make great music.

Several years ago, I learned the Robin Hood song from one of their CD's. It has been a perennial favorite of my kids at South.

So, the other day I was goofing around trying to learn to use some new recording software, and recorded my first graders' warm-up song. It was good for a chuckle. So I emailed it to Howard, the band leader, thinking they might get a kick out of it.

It appears that they did:

http://woodstea.net/Blog/Entries/2008/9/18_Robin_Hood.html

Quick Draw at Silas Canyon

I take a break from painfully dull graduate studies to bring you the following overdue update.

Last weekend, Sarah and I went hiking into Silas Canyon. It's a fairly remote region where neither of us had ever been before. It was a suprisingly easy hike, though, and before long we came to Upper Silas Lake, about three or four miles in. We had the whole place to ourselves, and lingered long over a lunch of squashed peanutbutter sandwiches and cold water.

After a while the wind off the peaks got chilly and it was time to move on. We moseyed up the trail, gorging on grouseberries (insanely tiny but intensely delicious) and enjoying the forest. Ah, is there anything quite like the smell of a mountain pine forest in the sunshine? The mountains have air you breathe intentionally, slowly. It tastes different. The drought seems to have finally lifted, and I can't remember the last time I saw this many wildflowers in late August.

Soon the forest began to open up, the grouseberry began to give way to grass, the lodgepoles to fir as we neared timber line.

Crossing a small clearing, I abruptly became aware of the medium-sized, shaggy, black dog in the trail just ahead. I drew breath to mention this to Sarah, as we have had unpleasant experiences with uncontrolled dogs on trails elsewhere. In the moment it took for this to get from brain to mouth, the little voice in my head said, "Um, that ain't a dog."

There is only one critter that size and shape in the mountains, and this was a little one. I immediately started looking for mama, and in a couple seconds spotted a large patch of shaggy brown fur in the bushes. OK, must keep an eye on that one. (Alright, kids, listen closely: these were black bears, ursus amaricanus, which can be brown; furthermore, brown bears, ursus arctos, can be black. Everybody still with me? Good. On with the story) They were twenty, maybe thirty yards away. And about the time I spotted her, she spotted us.

Now, I had immediately grabbed for the camera, hoping to snap a quick picture of a cub before beating a judicious retreat. But when mama took a couple steps our way, it occurred to me (and to my lovely wife) that getting out the bear spray was probably a pretty nifty idea, too.

"It's OK, mama; we'll just be moving along; there's a nice carnivore," I said. Or words to that affect, letting her know what we were lest she should become curious and decide to investigate. One of the cubs had run up a tree; another was still standing in the trail staring at us, as kids are wont to do when they see odd things. Sarah says she saw a third cub, a brown one. Mama stuck her head out of the bushes to get a good look at us.

Now, some wild animals are big. Moose are big. So are elk. But there is a special category of big which relates only vaguely to actual size, a bigness reserved for animals in very close proximity which have both the means and the motive to work severe harm upon one's person.

As mama bear stared me down from a stone's throw away, it occurred to me that she was big.

Big, but fairly agreeable, as it turned out. Having confirmed that we were, in fact, merely annoying hikers, mama turned and started up the trail at a quick walk. Cub #1 was still in the trail staring at us; an annoyed "whoof!" from mom sent him up a tree, too, with exactly the same facial expression human children get when their parents bark at them for doing something stupid.

My picture? Yes, I got it. Here is is. It really isnt' that bad, considering that I was holding the camera at arms length in my off hand, going for the bear spray with the other, all while talking to mama bear and backing up a bolder-strewn trail. I think that oblong, dark blotch in the upper center might be cub #2. I'm not sure where mama is. The old west art of the quick draw in action.

Tools

Up at Bible camp, there was a guy whom I will call "Dan."* Dan is an amazing guy. A professional cabinet maker with a deep Arkansas drawl and a reputation for a truly awsome work ethic, Dan is also a servant. He is always among the first to volunteer when there's a job to do, and he was just about always in there cleaning up the mess hall after meal times--get this--even when it wasn't his team's turn! His service is consistant, high quality, and low key; you have to pay attention to catch him at it.

For all of this, Dan is extremely reluctant to receive praise and encouragement. For one thing, he doesn't seem to need it. For another, he is concerned that complements to him diminish the credit given to God and detract from the service of others.

I tend to crave compliments a bit more than I should, but this sort of thing puzzles me when it comes up, as it seems to quite often. In a discussion at church this past Sunday night, we talked about how much is us and how much is God?

All this has me thinking about tools.

As a musician, I value my tools. I have a whole page on my website devoted to my instruments. This might seem odd to a non-musician, but there is a very good reason I love them so much. I consider myself an decent-to-pretty-good player, but here is the thing: A player can only sound as good as his instrument. I have owned enough clunkers to know that even in the hands of a competent player, a piece of trash, at best, will sound like a well-played piece of trash.


So, if someone walks up to me at a gig and says, "That is one sweet sounding whistle," am I offended because their comment detracts from my playing? No! Quite the contrary--I thank the person, and feel rather satisfied that someone has noticed both my good taste in instruments and my ability to do justice to a fine tool.

Jesus once pointed out to his followers, "You did not choose me; I chose you." When we complement the sound of an instrument, we are in truth complementing the musician who chose it and is playing it. When we recognize the service of a brother or sister, we also recognize the Spirit which moves them to service. Perhaps we should give and receive compliments accordingly.

Because here is the other thing: An instrument can only sound as good as its player. It is nothing but a pretty piece of wood or metal until a musician blows into it. That is when it comes alive.

Lord, let me be a reliable, well-tuned instrument through which you can breathe your music into the world.

*because that's his name