red blossoms upon her cheeks
as she exclaims in tones of ecstasy
see here i left only a few hours ago
and now the kitchen sparkles
but more than that
a pot of sauce on the stove
and i see a freshly baked loaf of bread
and some garlic butter
and a wedge of cheese and is that wine
well i do declare
i suppose it just may be dinner time
Month: May 2025
Thoughts of Dutch
A Friday evening in which all should be remembered except for the little thorns here and there which may be safe to be forgotten for though those thorns in the moment seem to prick so awfully bad and perhaps even a drop of red drip drops split splatters and the shocking color against the green of growing life underfoot is trampled after all soon enough it is a moment past even though in the moment it was present in such a way that it seemed to take up the enormity of infinity stretching from pole to pole though now look back where does the time go though the scar may still persist it is in the past now and can be smiled at as a memento of that for which we struggle along this pilgrim road which seems a bit long now stretching towards the skyscrapers that reach with broken claws up to the heavens oh smile down upon us they cry and have mercy upon us when we remember to ask but for me and my house we will serve the Lord and that is my cry this night for mercy has somehow already been shown me for yes even that red that dripped and dropped down that crooked tree was somehow from eternity past destined for one such as me and in actuality me and for that may this song be remembered until the new dawn of the eternal comes.
What is this Feeling
A little book review this rainy Sunday afternoon.
32. Wandering Stars by Tommy Orange. A book that’s simultaneously an easy read while also being very likely the most depressing book I’ll read all year. And yes before everyone chimes in, I’m well aware that depressing books can and often are worthwhile in how they point out the horror of all that’s been and was and still is right under our noses. Still though? Doesn’t mean these books – or this one in particular – are quite the type of books I love to read. This book is a rough one. It frankly unveils the horrors of both addiction and loss of cultural identity as it explores the aftershocks and still reverberating effects of the systemic erasure of Native American life and culture throughout the United States. Sometimes one would wish that we lived in a world where such horrors were not perpetrated by those in power, yet we cannot close our mind to history or deny that such events ever existed. And so I’m grateful for books like this that seek to show through the sweep of history and might-have-been personal narrative that the brokenness of this world is not so easily fixed as some might believe. I also found reading it a troubling experience, a lot of content warnings here, as the saying goes. I really do hate reading books with addiction themes. And…pretty much every single main character in this book struggles with such. I don’t think I could read this book again. Yet still – I did breathe a sigh of relief to see signs of hope at the very end of this tale, a hope that points to something better beyond the curve of the road ahead. As much as addiction and loss are all over this book, there is also just a bit of recovery.
And beyond the addiction themes, there are many discussions of identity and what it means to have a certain cultural identity. What is cultural identity and what brings such? Is it blood, is it cultural heritage, is it geographical longevity and ties to a certain piece of land? Is it familial connections or is it merely knowledge and being connected to that which came before? We all long for an identity as such – we wish to be known and valued for who we are – but who are we? It is difficult for me to overmuch critically analyse this book as I’m aware there are many questions that I am ill qualified to answer. This is a book written from a cultural minority viewpoint and thus questions are raised that I have never had to face sheerly due to the – at least outward – fact that I am in a cultural majority position. Does this mean I have the luxury of not thinking or caring about my cultural and/or ethnographic identity? I would argue part of my apathy in regards to such lies with my belief in Christ and that my true identity is found in being a Christian. Such tags as “race/colour/nation” are not ones I resonate with and find them less than helpful at times. Yet still I must and do recognize it is easier for me to shelve those labels as I don’t have to live in a society in which I am a minority. I must remember this. I don’t think this is a book I shall revisit and likely one I will not keep on my shelf. Yet. This book spawned a lot of thought and I am grateful for such, as much as I did not always agree with the author on some of the answers he pointed towards. I am grateful for the author sharing his perspectives and yes, even a piece of his story.
Alternate
maybe tonight the cafe won’t be empty
for she might walk in that door and make
my day
but perhaps not
i suppose i might make it to the end of my book without being
interrupted
at least i’ll know the ending
Pivot
she skips down the sidewalk
ignorant of the clouds gathering above
yet even though the rain starts to fall
she still pays no notice for she’s simply
thinking of her recent dreams
and of the fact that she’s
in love
for what now can harm her
or tell her she’s not enough
maybe she’ll go down to the coffee shop
and buy a mocha
or maybe just a croissant
but now she’s still and leaning against the fence at home
letting her thoughts settle
breathe once breathe twice
is the sky bluer than normal?
is the light through the trees always this stunning hue?
breathe girl get a grip remember your story
but also remember
i am not alone
i am loved
i am known
and there’s a little butterfly perching
on the bench out front
Keep up the Pace
I struggle to write sometimes of that which I know best. Instead I wish to write of dreams, of imaginary scenes, of the tapestries that run through my head in lush depictions of those stories for which I long. And sometimes I actually succeed at hitting the mark and am able to depict the glories for which I wish I was now participating in most fully. But alas, often times my pen runs dry and the prose I affix in permanency seems to be most dull and really a waste of time – both mine and yours, sad to say. What does that mean then? Should I stick to the here and now and write the mundane, the hours that fill my day and the little funny things that pop up in my life that yes of course pop in rhythm with the experiences of you all? I suppose I could. And really I wonder why I don’t allow myself the freedom to wander about and explore the experience of writing which I know. Sometimes I do, do I not? The best writing is that which weaves in the common and familiar and acknowledges the everyday realities which we experience in such concrete ways. And so let me remember that. Yet still if I refuse to write that which burns within and decide to not let my pen linger on those dreams that rise to those mythical images that even now dance before my eyes, then I would be denying the truer realities that dwell beyond the veil. May it never be. May I never focus so much on the here and now that I forget the later and not yet – the truer possibilities that in fact are sure because the faith in which I now abide is not to be gainsaid. So instead let me dance upon the asphalt in this present reality as I look up to heaven opened and gasp, dreaming of the future reality that is mine and yes just possibly yours as well.
Lions and Cloudscapes
I am a bit too far behind on logging books so decided I really should get to work on that. Hope this doesn’t take too long, but no promises!!
28. Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen. I have now read the penultimate unread Austen that I will ever read. And that strikes me with sadness, but it would not do to let that impede me from reading these last two (this one and Mansfield) – for is it not terrible to think of me hoarding unread books indefinitely? And thus it happened this past month that I finally lifted this book off the shelf and turned to the first page and started a delightful journey. For in truth this book was a delight. Does it bear the marks of a first work? Which – upon further research – I discovered this was the first of her books that she completed, even though it wasn’t published until after her death. And yes, to answer my above. This book definitely is a bit less mature and full than her later works. It’s absurd in many ways and definitely the least “Austen” Austen I’ve ever read, but still I kind of love it? This book is humorous, ironic, playful in all the right ways. Her writing is quite arch and ridiculous and I love it. And even though the main character – one Catherine Morland – is quite silly and preposterous at times, I only need to remember that she is in actuality only seventeen for it to all make sense again. There is lots in this one to love and I shall certainly return to it for re-reads in future.
29. Evangelism in a Skeptical World by Sam Chan. A solid book helping me to understand that evangelism may – and should – look different in different cultural contexts, including generational ones. I’ve been thinking on this subject recently, especially after reading the biography of John Paton a few months back, and so this book came at the right time for me. Too often I feel it’s easy to think of “evangelism” or “sharing the gospel” as something that must be done in a certain way or following a certain method, and Chan does a great job of refuting that mindset. In truth, sharing the gospel is simply telling someone the truth of how God has made a way to have real relationship with Him and why this is something utterly existentially necessary to every person on this earth. In stating the previous sentence as I have, I have already made choices in how to present this truth and there are leanings and perspectives that I have unwittingly betrayed as I attempted to state the good news of God’s gospel in as simple a fashion as possible. Chan helps us understand some generational shifts that have taken place and how we (at least those of us in the West, for he speaks to predominately a Western audience here) have moved perhaps past the point where a strictly apologetical and fact-based approach resonates with the majority of people. I was intrigued reading about the shifts that have taken place and how Chan has in his own ministry noted that people respond to gospel presentations very differently now than even twenty years ago. Maybe we in the West now respond to more of a story-based approach than the old more structured gospel presentations (such as the Four Laws, bridge diagram, etc, etc). I am very much simplifying this book but what I’m saying here is what stuck with me. Chan attempts to go much deeper and to highlight and give examples for different methods of sharing God’s gospel with others that may be more effective. In all of this, the part of me that hates pragmatic Christianity and tactical discussions cringed a bit. Surely, it is not us who can change the hearts of man? May it never be thought. And Chan rightfully affirms that only God can truly change the hearts of men and women and draw them to Himself. But does God not use such mean instruments as ourselves? And give us wisdom to understand different ways of communicating and approaching others with the greatest story ever told? And so I appreciate this book as one that makes one think more on how we might be lights and witnesses in this modern age. Perhaps I do need to consider more carefully my friend groups and how I might live my life in such a way to more clearly and boldly proclaim Christ. Maybe I do need to think on how I present Christ to others and how the stories I tell can be used by God. Part of me winces a bit at how much Chan loves the story or example method in his talks and speeches. I don’t think I will ever love the leaning on such. Yet I do understand that there are times when stories and parables are brutally effective and useful. Did not Jesus tell stories? Did not Jesus give examples from real life to indicate spiritual truths? So might I too not get too defensive when I hear of preachers and pastors using stories to point to the truths of God. This has been a bit of a rambling review and I apologise for that. I will say this book was worthwhile and made me think a lot about evangelism and how I approach it. Very worthwhile read for that.
30. An Experiment in Criticism by C.S. Lewis. As anything written by Lewis, a very worthwhile read. I much enjoyed this little book (or really almost an essay) sharing Lewis’s thoughts on literary criticism and the desired result of reading a truly good book. As always with Lewis, he makes some firm statements that really cannot quite be backed up, yet I did chuckle as I felt very validated on my stances on re-reading (very very pro) and also enjoyed Lewis making quite clear that reading a work is not simply about the imparting of information for its own sake but that in actuality the reader when reading enters into an actual transformative experience – i.e., the reader cannot get the same effect simply by reading the summary of a work, but that a work is the sum of its parts – content, prose, structure all, and if one truly engages with it will reap a corresponding reward.
I feel as if my mind doesn’t quite work at the same level as Lewis’s (shocking I know), and so it’s challenging for me to truly grapple with this book as I feel it deserves. Yet if anything, I think it made me revisit and think on why I love the books I do. And it also made me desirous to continue to seek better books and to read the truly excellent. Lewis is a bit much sometimes when he attempts to classify the types of books and types of readers that fill the earth. Maybe a bit dogmatic yes and in this day and age, he can even strike one as strident. Yet also I think we could use a bit more of Lewis in this modern age. It is bracing to remember and be reminded of the fact of objective beauty and truth. Yes, almost transgressive no? What does that say about us? And Lewis does not deny the usefulness and delight of different types of works. He is anything but haughtily pretentious in his discussions of literature. He sees the value in works that critics would sneer at, and for that I love him.
31. The Small Rain by Madeleine L’Engle. I still love this one. It is passionate and dreamy in all the best ways. It is a tale of a girl who has yet to truly understand the world or herself. It is the tale of a girl who sees with the maturity of one beyond her years because she has already seen so much and been through so much yet you’re often reminded that she is really just a girl. Katherine Forrester is one of my favourite characters to revisit – as I’ve been reminded as I read this one – and though at times she seems almost alien in the way she hovers above the text, there are brutal moments when all crashes down to earth and Katherine is revealed as oh so human. For a first book, this is revelatory. If only I could write like L’Engle. There are some of her quirks that will be further utilized in later books, but there is also a freshness here. Yes, it’s an adult book and thus some heavy themes – do not read this if you want a light read! – yet this book does not delight in the darkness. There are some descriptive passages that made me almost want to weep for beauty. Yes yes, I know I’m biased because I love L’Engle’s writing so, yet I truly believe this is a wonderful book. This is a book that just works as a late-night read, good for being curled up on the couch with a candle burning as one’s mind slips into a state suspended between the waking world and the world of dreams.
Let’s Talk
Do you hear the whispering around the corner or is it just me? She asked softly and eagerly with her eyes she hinted more. I knew not how to respond for it was one of those questions that didn’t really need an answer as you knew it was just a lead-in to a grander theme. But really, she said, isn’t it something how we all go through life as if this was just the beginning, an opening to a play that’s far grander than we could hope to do justice to? Or is it just me? Even those who carpe their diems and proudly proclaim their yolos seem to in an undertone admit that even so there is a faint whiff of dissatisfaction and that the meaning of life is not quite fulfilled. I hesitate to say all is vanity but do you not think that just about sums it up? I lean back and take a sip of my cold drink and let the luscious bitterness roll across my tongue and ponder the truths of what she’s just said. Or are they truths? Or perhaps just grand philosophical statements of the unexplained phenomena that the firing neurons in our brains frantically seek to connect in the patterns that we love to caress once they are defined and neatly boxed? I think sometimes the latter yet she speaks with such fervent adoration for the mystery that she almost understands. I for one cannot understand her fire yet I cannot doubt there is a fire there. So that is the question. From where does that spark come? And is it an eternal predestined flame or is it just a random outshoot of the conflagration of the universe in all its infinite randomness that must in its ways produce a moment such as this? And she as she sips her drink peers back at me, understanding the moment demands a silence and a question as that demands a pondering. What shall I say? I do know that there is something beyond the veil but sometimes I wish someone would tear it down and tell me that all is done and dusted and that here you go – the truth of it all is plain to see. I startle as I realize I have said this aloud. So yes she said slowly, the beautiful real smile dawning upon her face. You do hear the whispering. And you are more fortunate than you know, for your wish? Granted. We cannot see with eyes now but still yet there were some that have. That veil has been torn down and that true answer granted. All in one it was done and now all eternity lies bare to see. No, I say, in sudden realization. You tricked me. And here I thought it was an innocent philosophical digression. Is there ever really such a thing she mused. If you play at seeking answers you do indeed run the real risk of facing truth. Simply taste and see. Look at the words that were written. I choked in fear. Dare I go on another step. If so I may be caught and unable to escape. Or perhaps it was already too late. Those words that were written. They were written in blood, were they not? Veritably, she replied. Blood and water and spirit. The historical accounts all agree. History I muttered. It would be my nemesis. I cannot resist a good story. Well she smiled once more. Let me tell you one.
Curtain Falls
Storms roll in on the tide of weekend dreams. Sufficiently pretentious opening line aside, I do marvel at the fury promised by the cloudbank that peers at me over the horizon. I wish I could stay a moment to linger and watch the trees around me welcome the storm as they all lift their hands and celebrate its arrival but alas my feet are not planted quite as deep and firm as their roots and so I must away and fleet to home sweet home where shelter awaits. Oh part of me wishes to throw my hands up wide as well and feel the first winds of the advance guard buffet my shirt with their hearty embrace. Even to feel the sheets of rain fall around me and drench me entirely with the bounty of the heavens would not be a bad thing, for the storm is a clean thing, mighty in its power and joyous in all the clamor that it creates. Lift up a new song this day, ye heavens and even now shout aloud ye earth! This storm that so many cower from as they peer at their small bright screens and tap in disbelief that happy hour plans should be so rudely inconvenienced – it laughs and shakes its fists in hearty disapprobation at your antics. But as for me? My soul strains to escape the gravity of this plane and rise to higher heavens to shout aloud with angels at the mystery that is merely hinted at by the chaos of this storm that all earthly intelligence – artificial and otherwise – fails to truly grasp. See how the stars peer down and marvel at the beauty of the approaching thunderheads. Alas but I cannot see them. I look up and sigh for I cannot see the stars any longer. The last dark clouds roll overhead and thunder whispers it is time. I spread my arms to the heavens. Take me away with you and let me witness the purity of your wrath! For a second I stagger. It is stronger than I expect and then I blink as in an instant I am wet to the skin and feel the water pouring off me. I open my eyes and gaze up into the heart of the storm. Lightning flashes in golden chorus and my heart beats the rhythm of the rain. Oh sing with me this night my dear comrades, sing this anthem of creation’s might! I hasten to sing though my voice is drowned out by the angels. I am grateful that I have a front row seat this evening to the grand old show. Thank you for this opportunity, my good sir. It is very good for us to be here.
Something Weird 