PENTECOST IN A NEW KEY

She could see the threatening glow gathering above the flat horizon in the East. The Hammer was rising.

Everyone else in the village had hidden themselves away- just as The Boundaries stipulated. The young mother was trying, but raising two young children alone was not easy, and getting them to move without violating the writings seemed impossible. They were always in danger of transgressing, and so, often in danger of dying. Every morning’s Heatrise was one of those times.

“Come on. Come on… but don’t hurry. Don’t….,” her voice grew loud in exasperation, but she caught herself and glanced around. Little children wanted to run. It seemed a perverse joke to give them desires that would only kill them.

Chai, the youngest slowed to a walk, trying not to make eye contact. Mother and daughter then waited on the ten year old to reach them. He was very pious.

 

The Word Made Solid in St. Elmo

I went to a reception this week. I wanted to honor a talented art student at the completion of her Senior Project, but much of my admiration ended up splashing heavenward. I guess that’s the sort of thing that ought to happen when we’re presented with something that’s well done. But it remains a rarity for me…. at least in its more spontaneous manifestations.

My friend’s a sculptor, and the culmination of the past four years of study had been placed lovingly in a friend’s yard. I won’t pretend to understand the techniques involved in creating this sort of work, but I want to have a go at describing what I felt when I first saw it….and maybe, a little bit of why.

 

Holy Hatred

I originally posted this last year after the horrific Virginia Tech shootings. Surely, tomorrow morning will be a hard one for many many people, and once again, it’s reminded me of the certainty that death will come for those I love. The recollection makes me gnash my teeth; it’s why I can not, will not, let go of our ancient faith. Amidst all the siren’s calls and intoxicating glitter of today, I need to remember that on another day “the Great Thing” will be mine to face. So, I thought I’d put this post up again, if only for my own sake.

Her picture reminded me of my daughter.

There’s a clear resemblance and I was instantly drawn to the short description of this precious young lady. The account only made the connection stronger- she was openly Christian, home schooled, unusually innocent and sweet. Those who knew her thought she was likely praying for her attacker as he took her life.

Oh God. I could feel the tears forming. I’ve got that little girl living in my house.

 

Wine Making, Memory and Lent

I enjoy making wine. It’s my Grandpa’s doing.

I can remember being fascinated with the five gallon glass containers of fermenting crimson, which he had spread around his home. He grew his own fruit and pressed his own juice. It seemed so manly and exotic….but in the most domestically Appalachian way. Grandpa was different because of the self reliance and independence that his life’s hardness had produced, but he was as familiar as mason jars, tomato plants and cheap cigars.

 

Memory

I’ve a bee in my bonnet, and I suspect it will take a few posts to get it out. I’ve been thinking a lot about memory lately. Not my own specifically, but Memory as an activity and concept. I think it’s important. In fact I’m more and more convinced that it is lies very close to the center of our humanity. To be human is to remember.

 

Sacramental Kilogram

My wife placed an afternoon’s worth of cooking on the kitchen table, and with the uneven rhythm of popcorn escaping from an over filled fist, all six of the children began falling into their seats. Teasing, laughter, and delicious smells tumbled around the room. I grinned at my third born, who was standing beside me.

“Do you know what this is?” I asked her, indicating the glorious and raucous domesticity.

“It’s God making a pass at us.” she grinned back

She was right.

 

Still Setting Up

Once I get things in order over here, I’ll make the move from Blogger.