The First Step

The first thing that I noticed was his eyes; piercingly intense, visible even through the thick brown hair that was wet with sweat and had intermingled stains of red. Those eyes could have been wild with anger, or hate, we would have understood, but instead they were sincere, full of compassion and knowing. His eyes were kind – even today.

He was kneeling in thick dirt, dried mud from sweat and blood covered his hands to the elbow; his feet and calves were equally stained. The crowd roared with approval when the soldier raised the whip high to the sky. He yelled for the beaten man to “get up now.” Idiot. Didn’t he know that whipping a hurt man will not make him move any faster? I wanted to look away because he was my friend, my master, but I could not. The whip came down hard; his cry was muted by the force of the approving mob. He had been beaten, but he wasn’t beat. He moved his right foot slowly, dragging upward to a kneeling position. The cross was balanced on his right shoulder, with the cross member in front just past his knee and the end reaching ten feet behind. Weighing 200 pounds, it was a massive killing staff designed with only one purpose. The crowd continued screaming for more, hoping for another blow from the guard. But the guard was tired from a long night, so he rested, hoping for selfish reasons that the prisoner would stand up soon. 

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The Rogue Wave

Sometimes, being swept off your feet is not at all that romantic.  Consider walking into the ocean.  The warm grains of sand wrap around your feet and toes, giving way just enough as you walk to build a small hole that tries to hold on with every step. The sand nearer the ocean is damp and cool from the remnants of waves that retreated only minutes past.  Gathering your courage you press onward until that first taste of ocean water touches your toe.  It is cold, and you stop walking – jerking your foot backwards, but only for a moment.  Before you realize it, the waves are slapping against your knees and an occasional drop hits your chest. 

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2011 Christmas Letter from Michael

Dastardly Dan Dullard (Dan to his friends) sat at the end of a long wooden bar, the many gouges and burn marks that scarred its surface paid tribute to age of the bar, and its patrons. His worn and beyond-dirty black leather and denim outfit was a tight fit (Dan liked animal style fries with his double cheese burger). He wore a 357 magnum low on his right thigh; the leather holster shined from fresh oil. Although it was barley noon, Dan was finishing his third root beer float, made with real ice cream, fully leaded root beer, (Nothing lite for Dan) and topped with two maraschino cherries. Today, he would need all the courage he could buy. Today, Santa Claus was coming to town.

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The Bright Light

A favorite tradition during the Christmas season is the placement of lights on your yard and home. Christmas lights are like fireworks that don’t burn out and fall from the sky, but stay bright, as long and often as you wish. Glowing colored lights of all shapes and colors: red, yellow, green, and now even purple, in shapes of stars, balls, icicles, and angels. Trees and bushes are engulfed by multicolored webs, transforming dormant green and brown plants into glowing beacons of electric wizardry. Suddenly, a fog filled and chilly evening has become a scene of Muppets playing in the neighbor’s yard, Charlie Brown and his gang playing baseball on the roof, Santa and his gift filled sleigh rocket to a chimney from a nearby light pole. Scenes of white glowing deer amongst (You guessed it), white glowing circular trees surround the Magnolia Tree in the front yard, and air filled Polar Bears standing along an Igloo – magically rise for the evening show, only to deflate at midnight. Occasionally, a scene of wise men, a man and woman, and a baby find their way onto a yard to tell a different story of light.

Lighting our homes in celebration of Christmas is a beautiful tradition that I hope lives forever. Of course it should, since the tradition has already survived for over two thousand years. The first year there was only one light, but it was fantastically bright, and thought it could be seen by millions, was only noticed by three. It is a light that has never gone out since, and never will.

 

 

 Have a very Bright and Merry Christmas.

 

 

The Real Deal

Your Mercy is limitless.

Your Encouragement for my soul is beyond expression.

Your Righteousness is our only desire.

Your Reality is the basis of all human understanding.

Your Years are infinitely uncountable.

 

Your Courage smothers the fear that emanates from Hades.

Your Heart holds the love of the universe; yet there is still room for more.

Your Remembrance of my sin is no more, as if it never was.

Your Instincts create reality.

Your Strength covers all of my weakness.

Your Timing is exact and perfectly planned.

Your Motives are pure.

Your Authority is permanent and eternal.

Your Son is our road to salvation.

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Weren’t There Ten of You?

The title of this story was the classic response from Jesus, when after healing the ten lepers, only one came back to say, thank you.  “Weren’t there ten of you?” He asked.  Of course He knew how many there were; he had just healed them.  He wanted the one person who returned with a grateful heart, and us, to know that He was questioning the whereabouts of the other nine.  In effect, Jesus was asking, “Were the others happy to be healed of this terrible disease as well?  Why didn’t they come back and say so?”  Undoubtedly, the other nine men were very happy and excited to be healed; most likely, that was the problem.  They were so excited that they forgot who to thank for their gift.  They ran off to their homes and villages to show off the miracle, to stand before the crowds and reveal how fortunate their circumstances had changed.  The gift became the focus of all, the center of attention; and the giver, the most important person in this moment, was cast in a supporting role.  The nine were confused and mistaken. It was not the gift that was important, but the giver of the gift who was the real story.  In their haste, (and happiness) they forgot about gratitude.

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Heroes

Heroes

“Dudley Do-Right, you are my hero!” was the all-encompassing praise of Nell, the ever so sweet girlfriend want-to-be of the good mannered, yet bumbling Canadian Mountie.  Dudley’s goal in life, at least on the 1970’s cartoon, was to be Nell’s hero. Not a bad goal.  We humans have, since the beginning of recorded history, searched for, and identified with a hero figure; someone that we want to emulate.  Heroes are larger than life, they overcome great obstacles; heroes are fast, smart, typically good looking, wise, caring, brutal when dealing with a bad guy; yet humble, and kind to birds, kittens and bunny rabbits.  Everyone wants to be a hero (at least secretly), and identifies with someone living, or from the past, that they call hero.  Warriors have typically made good heroes for little boys, pitting good versus evil at terrible odds; but somehow good always triumphs.  To be a hero it is important to win big and often.  Explorers also commonly fall into the hero category, especially those who travel in either a wooden ship with many large sails, or a spacecraft with a single large engine; these explorers set out for places where “no one has gone before.”  It is also important for a hero not to go to the same place over and over again, but to seek out exciting and dangerous new places.  It is easier to be a hero if you are the creation in a book or movie, where life has a script to follow, and the writer can make certain that immoral choices are never made; where compromise is unknown and everyone (except for the bad guys) follows the rules.  Life is much harder for the hero who lives, breathes, and makes decisions for themselves.  We cannot just erase a bad drawing and start anew; real heroes, and their worshipers, must live with the consequences of a corrupt page.

We also like to expand the life of a hero into that of a role model.  Not only will we praise the hero, and dream of them, but we will try to live just like our hero.  “I want to be just like (fill in the blank) when I grow up.”  John F Kennedy was a charismatic leader with true vision, and a great love for his country.  Martin Luther King envisioned a better way to find the promise land, here at home.  Neil Armstrong walked on the moon – we all saw it on TV.  My list of heroes and role models included these people, and many more – sports figures, local celebrities, and of course, my Mother and Father.  My parents were not always the hero in the moment, it was as I grew older, and had children of my own that their heroism became apparent. 

Also, as I have aged, the reality that a hero / role model was imperfect has become abundantly clear.  Heroes are people, and people are flawed; that was not a fact when I was ten, but it is now.  Still, a person became my hero because of something specific that they were, or did:  best batting average, first on the moon, amazing speech, or the finest example of character I have ever seen.  Being human does not remove the heroic achievement, it gives it perspective.  So, to cope with the reality of human heroes, we filter out the corrupt pages and only view the ones that fit the profile of our hero: kind, strong, wise, caring, decisive, moral, and fearless – a perfect role model as defined within our very human mind.  The other pages: immoral, thief, liar, cheat, adulterer – they are torn out and cast aside, because they do not fit a hero’s mold.  It is a very natural compromise, arising from the need to have a hero in our life, and the realization that a hero cannot be perfect in all things. I still keep heroes, who are human and very flawed; because I need them, and I think they need me.  But, I realize, as I hope they do, that we are all a part of humanity, so perfection never enters into the conversation. 

When I have a need for a flawless hero, I get on my knees and look up.  I do this daily to remind myself, and Him, that perfection found its way to earth just once, and left an everlasting impression on all of us.

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Change

There is an old saying that “change is inevitable.”  I suppose that is right, and I know that every major scientist from Galileo to Einstein would agree, since we are on a rock that is circling the sun even when we are sitting perfectly still (impossible to do), we are in motion and thus there is constant change around us.  Their point is well taken, each new day has a different period of daytime than the previous, the temperature changes every day and night; humidity, wind speed – the list of measurements can go on forever, and they will all support the old saying about change. So the outside environment changes constantly, not only where you are, but from place to place as well.  For instance, six days ago I was standing on a warm beach, it was 85 degrees outside, and the humidity was 75%.  Today at home, it is a not-so-balmy 45 degrees and raining.  (That is a weather change that I could do without!)  When you ride a motorcycle, the temperature can change dramatically every minute as you move from shade to sun.  How about inside changes, are they inevitable as well?  I know this; it must have been the external environmental factors, probably humidity, that caused all of my clothing to shrink while on vacation, because everything fit tighter going home than when we arrived.  Some changes we consider good, and look forward to its arrival, and some we fight, not wanting that aspect of our life to change.  Certain changes we wait to happen, and there are some important matters that will never change.  For instance:

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Packing the Suitcase

At the moment I am somewhere between Los Angeles and Mexico City, at 37,000 feet aboard Aero Mexico flight 18. Looking out my window in row 12, I see the Gulf of California; it’s a hazy morning, so distinguishing any details of the land is hard. The best I can perceive is that the water is blue and the land, brown. I should have been a detective with skills like that.

We will be traveling for nine days and could only take one bag, so it was important to pack the right items; a combination of things I need, and possessions that are important to me. We are going to a beach in a tropical area, so bathing suits, suntan lotion, cotton tee shirts, and square bottom shirts with wildly colored flowers splashed across a black background are necessities. Of course, your basic toiletries fit into that category as well, as does my passport. Some cash, not too much, and a credit card, a camera and sandals completes my must have list. It doesn’t seem like a big list but, I still found myself on the bedroom floor with one knee on the bag and perspiration dotting my forehead as I forced the zipper closed. The person at the check in counter listed the bag weight at 46 pounds, just shy of the maximum.

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Cows Standing In a Field

Driving to work I pass by many fields supporting various agricultural delights: corn, tomatoes, grapes, pears, and peaches to name a few.  The most interesting field though, is the one that houses the cows.  Big, Black Angus and white faced Herefords stand majestically, always seeming to face in the same direction, their heads slowly dropping down to pull up a pound or so of grass, then slowly raising again to munch their lunch.  I noticed that they never actually finish lunch; it is an endless goal the cows keep trying to reach – all day long.  At first glance, cows may seem less sophisticated than almost anything; not very interesting at all, but on closer inspection the average Angus reveals a methodic intelligence and sense of purpose that is easily overlooked.  That big, smelly, slow moving creature may even display brief moments of wisdom.

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