A New Year, Decade, Moment. 2010

It's really my duty, as one who blogs with followers and a few regular readers, to post a New Year's blog. I really haven't much to say.

Coming off of what has been called the worst decade ever we are fortunate to be alive. That's not all, we are blessed beyond right or reason.

I spent New Year's Eve where I ought and where I'd most want; at the altar wanting a love relationship with God more than ever.

You remember my two "Sunday" blogs? (http://theclassicmc.blogspot.com/2009/05/sunday.html, http://theclassicmc.blogspot.com/2009/06/sunday-ii.html) They were full of ideals about new beginnings and everything refreshed-like.

That's now. This is our moment. Moment. Try something new if the old was not working. This is it. Take the year by storm. Win. Hope. Dream.

Go

2010

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.

Jeremiah 29:11

You Can't Take It With You (Part II)

I have a peculiar, "break-the-rules" manner of dictating a bucket list. It also leaves a lot less room for disappointment. You see, I put it on my bucket list only after I've done it. It's a system alright. Very much a compliment to my backwards docket are my real-life Sycamore family described in an earlier post of the same name. They didn't fail to deliver this time. Here's what the itinerary consisted of this time around, again simply put to preserve the beauty:

Still greeted in very much the same way, with an approach of many. I retailed their names in my mind again only miffing two. After a few comments on the lovely weather (rain and cold) we all went inside. I was hit early with the schedule, that had a mixed feel of pre-determination and spontaneity. First was a showing off of the architectural computer game. It was the low light but still intriguing. Next the eldest showed me his newly purchased scanning radio and a listing of all the stations he'd uncovered. We listened for a while to the Blountsville police and puzzled at their numeric code. Then came the jokes, my favorite kind. Those presumed corny. A telling and retelling commenced, some with spice and drama, others with stuttering and mistakes, but all funny. The relish of each one by them all was a breath of fresh air. They did most of the telling to start with but I eventually got up the nerve. Next came a lecture on guns and a marvelous showing collection-wise. Of course now the shooting will come. To load the impractical but amazing black powder pistol you must first clean it out, then pour a measured amount of powder, finally the lead ball and then mash it all in tight. Then squeeze the caps to put on the back (you squeeze them so they don't fly off). Now to shoot. Glasses on, hearing protection on, both deemed unecessary by me, but I'm no expert. I'm a horrible aim, but I manage to spare the cats and chickens with my two shots. After that we are back inside, but only for a second because two of us are off to milk the cows. Now I've never done it before but it's very simple if you aren't squeamish. I wasn't very productive and was shown up tragically by the seasoned milker. I finished a mere cup and a half while he belted out around a half gallon. Now discussions of government conspiracy. A trip back to the house, we try the milk. It is warm and creamy. Some pour it in their coffee. I'm shown a gun-like flyswatter. I talk about how unimaginative the name of a fly is. They say they haven't had a chance to try it out yet because there have been no flies since the winter, and I am pleased to find one on my own. Finally I'm shown the sheep, goats, chickens (I was offered one to take home. I regretfully declined.), horses (which you can ride) and more. A quick run around the property, the lending of a Smith Wigglesworth book, and the traditional, everyone outside to wave farewell will wrap up the afternoon.

I know good sorts from bad sorts and these are good sorts. Here's another for the annals. Look for another, I have no doubt one will come up.

Extraordinary

Everyone deserves to dress fancy, have there picture made, have their name in the paper, have the word "the" in front of their name when being introduced, have their talents recognized and applauded, be picked first when teams are being separated, be remembered, receive a phone call, get a letter in the mail, be someone that another friend "has to meet!", have a song written about them, be included in the acknowledgments of a book, and be someone's favorite. I don't imagine that is the case with everyone. I'm spoiled. Most of these have happened to me.

The politically correct thing to say is that everyone is extraordinary, and just maybe that's so, but then it's just as likely it isn't. Maybe no one is, how should I know. Maybe those so undoubtedly extraordinary are only a facade. Then again maybe their ability to keep it up is extraordinary in itself. It's possible that as a whole, as the enormous net of uniquities and talent we all are, we are extraordinary. Extraordinary as a body. I like that. Deciding what is normal is a stupid task with a jury pledged into not being too technical.

There is the kind of extraordinary that everyone wants to be. Those like Sherlock Holmes, The Fonz, the flattering and annoying side character in movies who tries to steal the girl... Then there are more specific extraordinaries and we think to ourselves that wouldn't be half bad either. People like Bill Watterson, Paul W. Bryant, and John Wayne. Then there are those rings of extraordinaries like the cast of I Love Lucy, the Sean Connery led comic book, sci-fi team (only a joke), or the U.S. army. The groups are the most appealing to me.

I like to think of myself as extraordinary. And so do you. I exaggerate myself in my mind, then, try to live up to it. Sometimes I do, others not so much. Then I covet things to add to my extraordnariness (Mitch! Is that a word?). My imagination makes me feel good if I'm at the right place. Art and talent are what I want to have. And so do you.

I don't have an end to this one. It's a change, but not a first. Thoughts were given, so it's only proper that thoughts be welcome. Fire away. I'm ashamed of this post. Apologies.

"Coursing Indepthrible Plasms..." A Fictitious Christmas Prelude.

I wrote a poem once. It was a Christmas poem, but I didn't know that at first. I know no words can do justice to Christ's love. We cannot give up dejected because of that, however. In short. I made up words. This blog is that poem. Only in prose form. Let us begin...

Then the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be the sign to you: You will find a Babe wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: “Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!”

Luke 2:10-14

These are the words that we get used to. From the obligatory Christmas Eve service to A Charlie Brown Christmas, you had to expect them to show up in this blog. But don't they just "sedgeline the hairs and emotives" that poach your neck and sizzle in your heart? It's a chilling piece really. But something occurred before this little "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" scenario. A sacrifice happened.

When most people think about the sacrifice of Christ it is Him pegged to a cross, and oh what a sacrifice that was. But the sacrifice comes before then. Much before.

I imagine Jesus Christ in Heaven. The threshold, overlooking the small, blue, beautiful orb, spoken to life by his Father, Himself. Spinning in the silence, it was not his trophy. We were...are. His "solar eyes" were affixed on the passage he would take through the "trampdom," through the "anthral empire" which we were making a sorry show of. But the show he saw was to be even sorrier. It was all before Him. The worst of it being exposure. Exposure to discomfort, previously unknown. To the sin that would "horrify His divinity." He saw the confinement. His omniscience and omnipotence corralled into a single cerebral "comburstion." Pain, fear, sorrow. Everything that comes with humanity. He saw disbelief among His loved ones. He saw ridicule and temptation. He saw betrayal. He saw when He was arrested and the whip slurped the blood from His back. He cringed with each pound of the nail that would be His future. The beating, the spitting, the dehydration. He saw it all.

But He saw something else.

He saw us. Not only when were in church or with our noses in a Bible. But when we were dragging His name through the mud, wasting His salvation, and cursing His love. He looked at all this, with the wind rushing past His spirit, and looked down again through the "grayened sky" with a lightening-ridden yard, with the greatest Christmas Carol, the greatest Anthem, ever heard blasting through the unknown atmosphere to enhance the fiercest love of all time, and He said, "Let's Go."

The anecdote just given, though embellished, is a fact. No night has ever proved so marvelously enchanting. Our Saviour took the jump, His heart racing as quick as it formed, and fell right into the swaddling earth. The baby only barely breathed was the product of a decision of love. He saw it all. The credits were far from rolling, the greatest story ever told, was just beginning. Thank You.

From me to you, have a Merry Christmas. I hope the year has left you with cherished memories. Here's hoping that tomorrow is a celebration and in everything you are honoring our Saviour. Rest peacefully on this Christmas Eve. You are beloved of God and worth it all to him. "Celebrate the Day!" I wish many more Joyful and Peaceful Christmases to you on each one of your Classical Rides.

Merry Christmas

The Poem

Coursing indepthrible plasms...
Did you want to do it?
Was it all a great adventure?
When you fell from the grayened sky to what could hurt you most?
Did you see me sitting here tonight
a blue glow on my crying cradle taking up someon's air? Oblivious ammense
the melodious strictangles and bleeting?
Were you surprised? Did your solar
eyes widen? Did you wonder at your
now divided hands or condition at your omniscient
comburstion?
Did the cutions sedgeline the hairs and emotives
of all those whom you cherished.
Was it more than a ficticious wave that
horrified your divinity?
Did you feel your regality though you glided through our trampdom
Or did you
willfully connect as a sect in our anthral empire?
Was it allowed to stray from the plan when your nature became ideative?
Did the journey transcend all that can be dictionaired
and thus resort to this?
Because when we run out of words to say or just none can
rive the deed.
We slake off in bitterst defeat and give not another thought.
Staying with all the polititudes. Afraid to visit the hue from which He fell, afraid to astonish or invent.
Believing the trees to be just fine though too maystained to
branch out.
So the myths they still remain undrawn but they
best represent the truth.
Did you do the impossible? Can I not try my
best?
I know that there aren't words and that harbrynths
won't explain, so I'll shief avante gardens and sing-hai brand new glories for you.

http://www.playlist.com/searchbeta/tracks#Celebrate%20the%20day%20relient%20k

Half and Half

Honestly I cannot think of a thing that is good in the subjective quantity of half. Whole almost always beats it. This line of thinking solves my half-caf decision in Burger King. If I know I'm getting caffiene why not go all in. And so turbo it is.

On a more crucial note, is the fractioned fame decision. No condemnation, it's just that we all want to take the credit for ourselves. We practically scavenge out the stuff. As Christians we ought to know better. And I mean WE. I go into stages and projects where my sole goal in my forethoughts is to give all the glory to God. But too often I'm wondering what good people will think of me. When I go in for the kill on a good deed, I'm thrilled at the prospect of my added "good kid" reputation. When a situation comes up I try to be the hero, knowing good and well that the best I can do for the situation is a prayer and not a punch in the nose. It's a tragedy to try and steal the dues of One who made any good deed you did possible. We all have to stop and ponder where the desire even came from to do the right thing. A tool is no good if it has left the hand for his own magnification.

With a sincere attempt and a sincere prayer, the half can become a whole. Humility feels good after you've worn it for a while. But you can't break it in unless you wear it.

Honestly

The most imposing blockade to forgiveness is dishonesty. Honesty is ugly in our merciless minds. We get to where we've fooled ourselves into thinking we've done nothing wrong. Hypocrisy ensues. Then comes the powder. Our makeup that makes people "ooh" and "ahh" about our walk with Christ. Like a hag wooing the charming prince, he and your admirers are in for a shock. "For there is nothing covered that will not be revealed, and hidden that will not be known." (Matthew 10:26). Redemption requires the sort of brutal honesty that will lead to a real remorse and mourning. Fortunately it is those that mourn that are comforted (Matthew 5:4) and the added bonus of a clean start. Dishonesty is the only reason any Christian ever looks at another in disgust and says "Shame on you, you dirty sun of a gun, how could you do this or that!" That's dishonest with themselves and their prey. They are living in a fantasy. In "The Ragamuffin Gospel" Brennan Manning quotes Gerald May as saying, "Honesty before God requires the most fundamental risk of faith we can take: the risk that God is good, that God does loe us unconditionally. It is in taking the risk that we rediscover our dignity. To bring the truth of ouselves, just as we are, to God, just as God is, is the most dignified thing we can do in this life." Yes wallowing in the mud of our humanity is dignified.